What Fate Denies
by Casey Garmeau
Summary: University student Arthur Kirkland possesses an enchanted book that will lead him along his fate's path. But Arthur is held back by memories of his past – and the book insists on leading him to Francis Bonnefoy.
1. Chapter 1

**What Fate Denies**

**_Pairing: _**_Arthur Kirkland/Francis Bonnefoy (FrUK), previous Arthur Kirkland/Alfred F. Jones (USUK)_

**_Rating:_**_ T _

**_Warnings:_**_ Possible character death (undecided), depression issues. (Warnings will be tagged at the beginning of each chapter.)_

**_Updates every two weeks on Friday evenings. _**

**_Edit: No longer updating on a schedule - now updated every three to seven days. (August 8, 2014)_**

* * *

Arthur had always hated affairs such as this. He didn't see the point of them, really. They were all sitting in the stuffy living room and making boring, idle small-talk as the radio crackled feebly upon the mantle. A pot of hot cider stood forgotten in a dim corner, filling the hot air with its sickly sweet stench. The house wasn't built to hold anywhere near this many people; it was hard to find a place to sit where he wouldn't be brushing elbows with an uncle or a godmother or a second-cousin-once-removed. Instead, he sat stock still on the couch, trying to take up as little space as possible as he brushed biscuit crumbs off of his vest and made an attempt to block out the sound of nervous laughter and muffled weeping.

His countless relatives had been filing into the room all night. Arthur couldn't help but think cynically about how fast his grandfather had gotten to work once he had settled down. And what did he have to show for it? Fifty people with whom Arthur was expected to deal now that his grandfather was finally passing. Feigning interest was exhausting. _Remind me of your husband's name? I'm sorry to hear that your cat is at the vet again. How is hockey practice going? _If they expected Arthur to keep these meaningless conversations going for the rest of the night, he didn't know how he would make it through the next few hours.

Of course, this was also the night when he would be written into his grandfather's will. Arthur begrudgingly promised himself to see it through to the end of the evening. There was no use in purposefully removing himself, after all.

"Arthur?"

Arthur looked up. His mother gazed back at him with tear-ridden eyes, trying to keep a shaky smile on her face.

"He's asking for you," she said.

Arthur sighed and stood up, brushing the remainder of the crumbs from his lap. "Alright, let's get this over with," he said, grateful for an excuse to leave his nosy relatives behind on the couch.

She smacked his shoulder. "Don't be like that," she told him sternly. "Show some respect."

Arthur waved her off. After all, he'd be free to go after this was all over.

He pushed open the creaky door to his grandfather's room. It was even more dim in here than the living room, but the sounds of speech and shaky laughter from outside were replaced with the constant whir of a dehumidifier once the door clicked shut behind him. The air was cool and dry and dark, and although there were only three people in the room, the atmosphere was nearly as stifling as that of the crowded room outside.

"Arthur?" came his grandfather's voice, as strong now even in sickness as it had been in health.

Arthur took a seat in the armchair beside the bed. "You don't sound sick at all, old man," he said.

His grandfather laughed. "I've never felt better," he said, his voice echoing tremulously off of the walls.

The young nurse who was sitting on the opposite side of the room shot a harrowed glance at Arthur. "Quiet down, you're only going to worsen his condition."

Arthur was about to point out that he hadn't hardly made a sound, but his grandfather cut in. "Nonsense, Marie. In fact," he said, grinning at the nurse with his familiar age-worn smile, "I'd like to speak with my grandson alone for a while. Could you go see how the missus is doing?"

Marie pursed her lips but nodded. "Very well, sir. I will be back shortly."

"Such a sweet girl," said Arthur's grandfather after the door had closed behind her.

"You just like her because she speaks to you as if you're royalty," noted Arthur.

"My boy, I _am_ royalty," responded his grandfather with a twinkle in his eye.

"You're just a farmer whose father happened to strike it rich," Arthur pointed out. He settled into the chair in a more comfortable position now that it was just the two of them. He felt bad that he had been so cynical earlier about seeing his grandfather. Although the two of them were never particularly close, they got along rather well. He was the only one who seemed to really understand Arthur when no one else in his family did.

To that, his grandfather laughed. "How are you holding up?" he asked after a bit.

Arthur stifled a yawn. The dry air was making him a bit lightheaded and he was reminded that he hadn't been graced with enough sleep the night before. "What do you mean?"

"There are too many people in this house for you right now, aren't there? I'm sorry that you had to sit with them for so long. I wanted to call you in sooner but your mother wouldn't leave. You know how she gets." He chuckled lightly. "Did you have to hear your Aunt Annie's gerbil story?"

Arthur shuddered. "Twice," he said.

"Hmm." His grandfather sighed happily. "It is indeed comforting to be surrounded with loved ones in your last moments."

To that, Arthur had no suitable response. He knew that his grandfather wasn't long for this world, but the fact that he was so flippant in mentioning it made him unsure of what to say. Instead of replying to the statement, he simply closed his eyes and deeply breathed in the refreshingly cool air as he waited for the old man to continue.

A short time later, he did. "I have something for you," he said. From behind one of his pillows, he pulled a regal, leather-bound book.

Arthur took it from him and turned it over in his hands. "What's this?" he asked, flipping through the pages. Every single one of them was devoid of lines, markings, or ink of any kind. "A sketchbook?"

"Not quite."

"A journal?"

"Getting closer."

"A-"

"Don't get yourself too worked-up," said his grandfather in that same strong voice.

"Why are you giving me this?" asked Arthur. Wasn't this meeting supposed to determine what would be bequeathed unto him in his grandfather's will? Was this shoddy book all that he was going to receive? "I don't understand."

"You will, Arthur." He settled back onto his mountain of pillows. "Not today, maybe not even anytime soon. But, my boy, you will understand. And when you do realize, I will be here to help you." He pulled the sheets up to his neck. "Now, Arthur," he said, turning to smile at him. "Would you be so kind as to call Marie back on your way out?"

Arthur hadn't realized that his mouth had been hanging open. "Of course," he said, standing up. "Erm…" He wasn't exactly sure how to begin to say goodbye. But this could very well be the last time he saw his grandfather alive, so there was no way that he could leave without saying anything. "Well, in case I don't get the chance to speak with you again, I-"

"We'll speak again. We'll see each other very soon, in fact." Arthur's grandfather gave him a knowing grin. "Now, fetch Marie, if you please."

Arthur nodded silently, confused. His grandfather was extremely old, no doubt, but there had been no onset of any sort of dementia. However, there was no reason to doubt what he was saying. If it made him feel better to believe that Arthur would come to see him again, then so be it. "Alright. Goodbye then, Grandfather."

"Until next time, my boy," the old man called after him as he left the room.

Arthur brushed past his mother in the living room. He was vaguely aware of her attempting to speak to him, but he had no desire to respond. He called over his shoulder that it was late and that he really should be leaving; it was getting dark and it was a long ride back to his apartment. After a quick and entirely unavoidable goodbye speech from his mother, he was out of that stifling house at long last.

Arthur tossed the book into the holding compartment of his motorcycle and, after securing his helmet over his head, began the long drive back to London. He was perfectly content to forget all about the strange book.

Until the following Monday morning, that is. It was a dark, rainy day, and he found himself sprinting across campus to class while trying to keep a paper cup of mediocre black tea from spilling and scalding him. He was late to class - obscenely late - and here he was backtracking through the driving rain because he had _forgotten the damn book_.

He hadn't even meant to bring it with him that morning in the first place. He'd accidentally picked it up along with the rest of his textbooks that had been in the holding compartment of his motorcycle. By the time he realized, he was already waiting for his tea at the campus center.

And now, because of this damned book, he was going to be late to the first lecture of the semester.

He rounded the final corner of the campus centre building, his clothes sopping wet from the rain and puddles that he had braved in order to reach the building. Frantically, he glanced around the area in which he had been sitting as he waited for his tea. "What?" he breathed in confusion as he approached his table. The book was nowhere to be found. "Shit, no-"

"Are you looking for this?" came a light voice from nearby.

Arthur turned to see a man no older than he standing a few feet away. His long blonde hair clung to the sides of his face with water from the rain and he looked every bit as drenched as Arthur. In his hand was the dark, leather-bound book.

In normal circumstances, Arthur would proceed in a gentlemanly manner. However, this day had already been too disappointing even to consider politeness towards the stranger with his ridiculously lilting light French accent, especially after this man had taken his grandfather's book from him. "As a matter of fact, I was," said Arthur, advancing towards him. "Get your hands off of it, you prick."

The Frenchman's expression became slightly hurt. "I only picked it up," he said, "I wasn't trying to steal it, _je promis_. Anyway, what would I want with a blank book?"

Arthur snatched the book away from him and turned on his heel, rearing to sprint all the way to the lecture hall. He didn't look back at the stranger as he ran.

He was too distracted to pay close attention to his class. He took bare notes, but since the first class of the semester was never extremely substantial, he was left to mull over his dark mood. Today was definitely not turning out well. First the late arrival, then the spilt tea and burned hand, the rain, the ignorant stranger, the lost book…

Arthur glanced at his watch. There were still ten minutes left of class and his economics professor was droning on and on about the syllabus and classroom policies for the semester. Resigned to boredom, Arthur took out the leather-bound book. If anything, he could doodle a bit.

He absently flipped through the book, tapping the desk with his pen and knowing that he would find the pages naturally blank. However, around three pages from the end of the book, he stopped.

At the top of the page was an elaborate symbol, a strong, spindly design like something that one would find at the top of a headstone or within the pages of a long-forgotten classic.

Arthur's eyes widened as he stared down at the page. Below the regal heading, words began to appear as if they were fading in from the other side of the paper.

_January 14__th__, 8:26 AM_

_ First contact. _

* * *

Truth be told, Arthur should have been more careful on the road. Wind tore at his jacket and rain pelted his skin as he rode, skidding through puddles and jolting across sunken potholes. Though he was usually quite concerned with road safety, especially in conditions such as this, he made his way out of the city at top speed. Sooner than he had believed was possible, he found himself standing, drenched head to toe, on his grandfather's front porch.

Marie's expression was one of surprise as she opened the door to let Arthur in out of the rain. His grandfather was seated behind her at the kitchen table with a newspaper and a bowl of soup before him. He looked up, smiling, when Arthur entered the kitchen.

"Ah, back again so soon?" he asked, folding his newspaper and tossing it onto the table. "I was just about to have lunch. Sit down, Marie can get you something warm to eat."

Arthur moved wordlessly over to the table, glancing at Marie as she stood with her back to them at the stove.

His grandfather motioned to her with a nod of his head. "Wait," he said quietly. "I promise that everything will be explained."

Marie set a bowl of soup before Arthur – a broth-heavy vegetable stew – before turning to clean the pots and stove. After determining that her work was done and asking if there was anything else her elderly client needed, she departed for the living room.

Arthur hardly waited until she had disappeared from sight before pulling the leather book from his bag and pushing it across the table. "What the hell is this?"

His grandfather chuckled. "I see that it's taken you a surprisingly short amount of time to be made aware. Very good, very good indeed."

"What's very good?" he asked, irritation boiling inside of him. "All I know is that this book was blank until that tosser picked it up and for however long afterwards." He leaned across the table, lowering his voice. "Grandfather, I saw words appear on the page. What the hell is this book?"

The old man was silent for a moment. "This book," he said, gazing wistfully at the cover, "possesses a great power. Not one of strength, but one of safety and guidance." He reached towards the book and, after a nod of assent from Arthur, picked it up. Abruptly, his speech shifted back into its usual light tone. "What about this _tosser_ who picked it up?" he asked. "What were they like?"

"What do you want to know?" asked Arthur, his growing irritation seeping into his voice. "He looks about the same age as me. A damn French bastard. Don't even know his name."

"You do," said his grandfather, opening to the front cover.

"Come again?" said Arthur. He couldn't recall hearing the man say anything remotely related to a name during their brief meeting.

"His name. It's right here." The old man slid the book back across the table and pointed to the inside of the front cover.

Looking at the cover now, Arthur didn't know how he could have missed it. There, in tiny printing in the top left corner, were the words _Francis Bonnefoy_.

* * *

_Author's note: _

_This fic is an emotional release for me, so I expect that it will not be a particularly light read. Most of the plot will be determined by how I feel while writing it so it will most likely lean more towards depressing than happy. _

_Thank you for reading this far! If you liked this chapter then please drop a message or favorite, since if it gets no reception then I will most likely not continue posting chapters. However, if there is a single person who enjoyed it, I will continue. Thank you for your input!_


	2. Chapter 2

It was no wonder that Arthur found it impossible to settle down once he got back to his apartment. The lunacy of which his grandfather had spoken was becoming increasingly probable with each word, and it was driving him mad. An hour after he arrived back home, he was sitting on the sofa with a cup of herbal tea in his hands and absolutely no idea what to believe.

His memories about what had happened after he saw the name in the cover were rather vague and jumbled – there was only so much "mystical powers" talk that he could take at one time and he had far surpassed the day's quota. The week's, even. Maybe even the month's.

But what was it that he had told him? Once the young housekeeper had gone out of earshot for good, Arthur's grandfather had explained that the book was a marker of the Kirkland family, that their lineage had been blessed with honed psychic abilities that other people could only hope of possessing. This book had been given to Arthur's great-grandfather a century before, and it had been leading the family to success ever since then. His great-grandfather's success in business after being a farmer all his life could only be attributed to following the advice given by the book – it had led him to the man in charge of the firm that would ensure his success – and it was what led Arthur's grandfather to his wife.

And now, the book was being passed on to Arthur. And, surprisingly enough, it seemed that Arthur's mission had already been presented to him. His grandfather said that there was no way of knowing what sort of mission that it would become, just that Mr. Bonnefoy would now be playing a role in Arthur's life.

His grandfather had told him that when something important was happening, it would appear on the page – in addition, any interactions that the two of them had together would be logged. If he wanted to know what was going on at a specific time, he'd have to concentrate on bringing the words to the book and they would come.

According to the old man, it was fate that had brought Francis to the book. He hadn't stolen an opportunity from Arthur to meet someone else, someone more interesting or enamoring – it was simply that Francis was the one who Arthur was supposed to meet.

It had sounded like a load of crock at the time… But as his grandfather explained more about the book and the Kirklands, things started to make a regrettable amount of sense. Usually, Arthur was glad to get mysteries like this solved. Now, however, the new knowledge only made his head hurt.

Arthur was prepared to believe his grandfather. But, his belief in everything that he had been told rode on one fact: was the man whose name was written in the front cover of the book the same man who Arthur had run into the day before?

And Arthur knew just how to find out.

He'd been sitting on the sofa with the book open in his lap, flipping aimlessly through the pages. Nothing else had shown up by itself after the previous day's entry. Arthur assumed that this was a good thing. After all, his grandfather had said that important entries would appear by themselves. No news was good news, right?

Honing his focus had resulted in a short, undescriptive entry:

January 14th – 23:29 

_Drinking. _

So he was one of _those _then. One of the students who spent all of their time washing their woes away with alcohol late into the night. Arthur tried to stay away from that sort of thing. Alcohol meant excessive interactions with other people – he knew that he got a little too friendly when drunk – and he always ended up regretting everything the next morning.

It was after Arthur had conjured – conjured, that was a word that he had never expected to use in this regard – the entry that he figured that he'd better test the old man's words. The way to do so had appeared to him not long after he found himself doubting still what the man had told him. That was when he had noticed the new addition to the front cover: a string of ten numbers beneath the name. A phone number.

At first, he'd debated whether or not to do anything about it. But then again, wasn't it the only way to proceed if he wanted to know who this man was without tracking him down the next day? After much self-deliberation, he sent a concise message: _Is this Francis's number? _

Not long afterwards, a reply came: _Who is this? _

That settled it. Wouldn't anyone else have denied it or told him that he had the wrong number? Arthur was satisfied to have an answer, but it wouldn't be courteous to end it there. After all, if he was going to be talking to Francis constantly then it was better that he didn't leave a strange message on his phone with no context. _My name's Arthur. We have a class together. _A blatant lie. Under the circumstances, nothing else that Arthur thought to say would have made sense.

The reply came just as quickly as the previous message had: _How did you get this number? _

After a bit of thinking, he sent back: _Student directory._

This time, the reply took a long time to come in. After over five minutes of dead air, a response finally came: _I see. _

Arthur set his phone on the table and leaned back into the sofa. That… could have gone better, to be honest. A quick check of the book showed a new entry:

January 14th – 23:48 PM

_Messaging courier_.

Courier. The word by which the book chose to refer to him, as if he were nothing more than a messenger or a link between worlds. He tried to ignore it, but the word choice definitely left him with a strange feeling.

With this newest entry, all doubts that had been in Arthur's mind up until that point dissipated.

The man who had picked up the book early that morning had been Francis Bonnefoy, the same person whose life was being narrated through the book which was now in Arthur's possession. And somehow, Francis was going to become a part of Arthur's life.

His grandfather hadn't been lying. Unless this was an elaborate hoax, everything was coming together to make some amount of sense. Until that morning, Arthur had believed that he was just like any other first year university student. Now, everything had been turned upside down.

Arthur soon realized that bringing the book to campus with him only served as an unnecessary distraction, since the majority of his time during class the next day was spent checking the pages of the book for updates rather than paying attention to his professors. It was only the second day of the new term and he knew that he shouldn't be slacking off so early in the semester, but the air of importance surrounding the book made it so much more intriguing than his classes.

He tried to berate himself for being so absentminded, but he couldn't hold a thought long enough before it was lost with another flip through the pages of the book. Then, with only five minutes left in his Mathematics lecture, words began to blossom beneath the previous night's entry.

January 15th – 9:48 AM

_Clearing locker: art building floor three. _

Though the book had indeed been occupying his thoughts for most of the day, he hadn't been concentrating strongly enough to conjure an entry. It appeared on its own… Did that mean that something important was going to happen? Whatever was going on, he remembered that his grandfather had said that it was essential to respond to the book's calls. Mathematics was his only class for the day, so there was nothing keeping him from following the book's instructions.

Five minutes after the professor had dismissed the class, Arthur found himself at the top of the stairs of the art building. He leaned against a wall, clutching the book to his chest; there had been three flights of stairs to climb, and he regrettably wasn't in as good of shape as he knew that he should be.

After catching his breath, he pushed himself off of the wall and made his way toward the center of what looked like a sort of cement courtyard. The third floor of the art building was essentially the roof, so the classrooms were built facing a large common area in the center which was open to the sky.

It wasn't very difficult to locate Francis after Arthur had gotten his bearings. There was an alcove off of the main courtyard, a hidden-away space about twenty feet across which was blocked off from the open air by a thin railing. The effect was that of a closed-off balcony tucked out of the way behind the courtyard and classrooms. And there, leaning against the banister and holding a smoldering cigarette between his teeth, was Francis.

Arthur just stood for a moment, looking on. Francis's hair was tied back today, no doubt to keep it out of the embers of the cigarette. At his feet beside a plain messenger bag was a canvas drawing pad case as well as what resembled a toolbox, no doubt full of pencils or brushes. Now that Arthur thought about it, Francis _did_ look like someone who could be planning on studying art. As Arthur watched, Francis took a long drag of smoke and expelled it slowly before him, gazing across the dreary campus. It wasn't raining today and, although the clouds threatened to unleash stormy weather at any moment, the air was clear enough and they were high enough off of the ground that it was possible to see all the way from one side of campus to the other from where they stood.

Arthur took a cautious step towards him. Now that he was here, he couldn't think of what he should say. He could alert Francis that he was there, or he could turn and leave. It didn't make much sense to have come all the way here if he was just going to leave without saying anything. He decided that just a simple greeting would do. "Good morning," he said finally.

Francis looked quickly over his shoulder with a touch of almost-imperceptible worry across his features. After a moment, his expression softened. "Good morning," he replied, turning away from him once more. "To what do I owe this pleasure? Have we perhaps met before?"

"Yesterday," said Arthur, going up to lean on the railing as well. "You picked up my book."

"Ah, of course." Francis laughed bemusedly. "You were quite the charmer. What was it you called me? A prick?"

"I just thought…" started Arthur, a stony expression coming across his features. He turned his attention back to Francis. "What are you doing here? You don't have a class now?"

Francis shook his head ever so slightly. "Skipping."

Arthur's gaze landed for a split-second on Francis's art supplies. Skipping art, then. "But it's only the second day of class. First, even, since it's Tuesday…"

"Exactly. Nothing's happening." He turned around, leaning his elbows on the railing behind him. "Besides, it's just art. Entry-level. The teacher couldn't possibly teach me anything that I don't already know during the first class."

_What an egocentric_—Arthur didn't allow himself to finish the thought. "Still no reason to skip class," muttered Arthur under his breath.

There was nothing but silence for a few moments. Then, Francis spoke. "Here I've been so polite, and you're not even going to tell me your name?"

Arthur regarded him carefully. "I'm Arthur," he said after a moment's contemplation.

Francis narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Not by any chance the same Arthur who messaged me last night?"

Arthur looked away. He hadn't thought as far as to decide how to explain his reason for texting him. Replaying the whole conversation in his head, he spun a quick tale. "Yes, that was me. We're in the same art class. The teacher sent me the role sheet by email because there was a fluke in the system and I wasn't enrolled. I was supposed to check to see if I was on the list or not." He stopped shortly, his mind racing. "And I like to have at least one person from every class in my contacts in case I miss anything. I just chose a random name."

"Oh? Chose a random name?" asked Francis. There was a glint in his eye that Arthur didn't particularly like.

"Yes, that's why I messaged you. I hope I didn't interrupt anything important." He hated lying, but how else was he going to move forward from this point? Besides, it seemed to him that he had a pretty solid story going. If he ended up enrolling in the art class, it will have hardly been a lie at all.

Francis shot him a sultry grin. "Are you sure that it wasn't anything else?"

Arthur glared. For fuck's sake, he wasn't in the mood to be hit on right now. "Of course not, idiot," he growled back at him.

Francis just kept that obnoxious grin plastered across his face. "So, are you going to class or not? Oh, hold on," he said, raising his eyebrows. "You must be one of those pretentious fools who actually goes to class everyday even when they know that it doesn't really matter in the end anyway. Am I correct?" Before Arthur had the chance to respond, Francis continued. "Enjoy." With that, Francis put out his cigarette on the railing and tossed the stub behind him. He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder before turning away from the railing, grabbing his canvas and toolbox, and heading back towards the courtyard. "See you around, _mon chou_."

After a few moments of silence once Francis had disappeared from view, Arthur leaned on the railing and looked across campus from where Francis had been standing. This spot was pretty high up for only being the third floor. He had never had a reason to step foot inside the art building before, but now that he was here, he was glad that he had the chance to admire this magnificent view of the tiny university.

Arthur stood, resting his arms on the banister, for a while longer. He was just digging himself into a deeper hole by spinning these tales as to why he was following Francis. He would be surprised if Francis wasn't getting suspicious. It was more difficult than he had imagined to be around him in person without revealing what was really going on.

But how was he going to get himself out of this one? He guessed that it was a good idea to head over to the art class, the one in which Francis was enrolled and, apparently, not very interested in. Arthur himself was no good at art – he had never shown any proficiency in anything relating to the arts or creativity. He was simply more book-oriented. But hadn't Francis said that it was an introductory course? That shouldn't be too difficult, and this way, he'd have a reason to see Francis. Although the Frenchman had proved himself to be nothing more than a bother, the fact of the matter was that if this was a man who was going to make a difference in Arthur's lie, then it was a good idea to make sure that he had a legitimate reason to be around him. He was curious, and this was the only way to gain more information. Besides, it would be nice to have a creative outlet. Heavens knew there was enough constantly on his mind that he'd be able to get something down on paper.

Arthur pulled the book from his bag and opened to the most recent entry, which simply read "meeting with courier." Why had the book called him here? The conversation which he and Francis had just taken part in had been frustratingly empty. What was so important about that moment that compelled the book to have him meet with the man? What was so important about Francis and his art supplies that it was essential for Arthur to know that he was sorting out his locker? He didn't understand the book's methods or where it was leading him, and he didn't expect to understand for a long time still.

As he pondered, he began to feel light raindrops on his skin. The sky, which had seemed heavy with rain all morning, seemed to have finally given in. Not that it meant much to Arthur – if anything, he liked the rain. It helped him concentrate whenever things became particularly difficult to sort out. But there was also something in the scent or sensation of the rain on his skin that brought back memories, images of better times as well as those days which he would give anything in order to forget.

He shook his head, pulling up his jacket collar to offer more protection from the weather. As he did, a light in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Resting on the ground a few feet away was what appeared to be a small metal cylinder. He stooped to pick it up and rolled the object in his hand. It was a lighter, a silver-bodied tube that reflected what little light the dark sky allowed. There were no markings upon it that would offer any indications as to who the owner was, apart from a number of scratches across the surface, but there was no doubt in Arthur's mind who it belonged to.

He pocketed it with a short sigh. Maybe if he hadn't stood at the railing daydreaming for so long, he could have returned it before Francis was very far away. He could ask the book where he was of course, but the last thing Arthur wanted to do after a morning of classes was follow the obnoxiously flirtatious near-stranger through the rain to return his lousy lighter.

Instead, he ran through the rain with his jacket over his head as he made his way towards the spot in which he had parked his motorcycle. He silently cursed the weather as he pulled out into the streets of the city. As much as he appreciated the rain, he hated driving in it. He was always worried about having an accident, especially on his motorcycle when visibility was low. His trust in city drivers was just nigh of none.

Despite his constant apprehension, he arrived at his apartment unscathed. He quickly changed out of his wet clothes as soon as he was through the door, then fell heavily onto the sofa. A quick glance at the clock told him that it wasn't even 11 AM yet. He liked to get his classes out of the way early, even though he wasn't quite a morning person, because then he had the rest of the day to get things accomplished without sleeping until noon and losing all of that time. Before this year, he had missed so much of his life by sleeping until 2 PM. It was a flawed system, but it worked for him. Plus, it made weekends that much more relaxing.

He hadn't been assigned any work for his only class that morning, seeing as it was so early in the semester. So now, there was nothing to take up his time other than thoughts.

Usually, he'd be dwelling on the past right about this time of day. Now, however, there was something new to occupy his mind. And oh, was he glad for the distraction.

Then again, this distraction was a careless, smoking flirt. Perfect.

Speaking of which, he had a text to send: _You left your lighter_, he typed, before pressing the send button.

The response came not long after that, just like it had the night before: _I noticed. _

_Let me guess, you want me to bring it to you?_ he typed. Arthur hated to base judgments about someone who he had just met on appearances alone, but Francis seemed the type of person who would chain smoke for fun. Arthur had known too many people like that, and knew that it wouldn't be good to hold onto the lighter for too long. Francis probably had another one at home, or in his bag, or even in his pocket. But something about this one seemed… Arthur didn't know how to put it. "High-end" was a good descriptor, he decided, picking up the lighter from the coffee table where he had lain it before changing his clothes. It definitely wasn't one of the cheap plastic contraptions which he saw so often discarded around the city.

_No need. Would you mind meeting me for coffee at the campus center at around 8 tomorrow morning? _

Arthur stared down at the message for a moment. Well, that time would certainly work. His Economics class didn't start until 8:30 so that left plenty of time. And grabbing some coffee before the lecture would hopefully keep him alert enough to actually pay attention this time. _Sure_, he replied.

_See you tomorrow morning then, mon cher._

What a snob.

Arthur tossed his phone onto the sofa beside him and looked once more at the clock. It was exactly 11 AM now. If he didn't find something to do soon, he'd just end up laying around and wasting time on his laptop all day. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up from the sofa and made his way to the kitchen, intent on making a batch of biscuits or shortbread and wondering what good could come out of getting involved with such a man as this.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning air was thin and bitter. Arthur pulled his jacket obstinately around himself against the biting wind, a foul mood having already come over him as he made his way towards the campus centre. He'd had to get up earlier than usual that morning in order to meet with Francis. Although that was what had originally instigated his bad mood, at least he was going to get coffee out of the deal. He preferred black tea in the early morning before classes but anything warm would do at this point. The entire city had frozen over the night before and the roads had been even more precarious than usual now that they were covered with a thin layer of undisturbed ice. He'd been greeted with a beautiful winter sunrise on his way to the university, but he'd been too focused on keeping his motorcycle upright on the ice to pay too much attention to it. He was just glad that it wasn't raining this morning and that the skies were clear for the time being. Rain had been falling nonstop for the past week, and he was sure that he wasn't the only Londoner who was glad to see a change in weather.

Hardly anyone else was in the campus centre when Arthur arrived. There were only a few students there so early in the morning, so he was able to quickly spot Francis sitting at a table not far away. He had a thick scarf around his neck and two cups of coffee on the table before him.

Francis looked up as Arthur approached. "Good morning," he said, gesturing to one of the cups. "I didn't know what you take in your coffee. I hope it's acceptable."

Arthur set his bag down at the foot of the table and sat in the seat opposite Francis before gratefully taking the coffee. "Thanks," he said, picking up a packet of sugar that was beside the coffee on the table and stirring the contents into the drink. He took a sip and sighed with relief as he cupped the warm beverage in his hands. The weather wouldn't warm up for hours still, maybe not even until after he got back to his apartment. It was nice to have this in the meantime.

Francis simply looked across the table at him as they sipped their coffee. "So?" he said finally.

Arthur put down his drink. "So, what?" he asked.

Francis shook his head with an expression of mild disbelief. "Did you bring my lighter, or did you only show up because I offered you coffee?"

"Oh!" Arthur rummaged through his bag and returned a moment later with the lighter in his hand. "'Scuse me, I got sidetracked. Must not be fully awake yet."

"Not a morning person?" asked Francis, taking the lighter from him and turning it over in his hands, perhaps checking for any new scratches. Seemingly satisfied with its condition, he put it in his pocket before picking up his coffee once more.

"Not in the slightest," Arthur responded. This early in the morning, he was usually hardly functioning. He'd forget things easily and end up leaving supplies at his house or in the compartment under the seat of his motorcycle. By the time his mind was finally unclouded, he would have already passed through an entire class completely in a daze. The coffee, however, would be a definite help. He could already feel himself becoming more alert.

Seeming to sense that Arthur wasn't going to elaborate his point, Francis spoke up. "Why do you take such early classes, then? You were here before nine AM on Monday."

It may have sounded like simple, boring small talk, but something in Francis's voice hinted that he was actually quite interested in what he had to say. Guessing that his interest was genuine, Arthur decided that there was no need to bend the truth. "Because otherwise I would sleep all morning and waste my life," said Arthur. It wasn't something that he usually found himself telling people; but then again, who else did he have to tell? "I could ask the same to you, really. No one takes such early classes on their own accord."

Francis muttered something that Arthur couldn't catch, then said, "I'm here early because I work during the rest of the day."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. He himself waited tables every once in a while at a local restaurant and spent some weekends helping out at the bookshop beneath his apartment, but he still had an overwhelming amount of free time whenever he wasn't working. Which, he had to admit, was an almost disgracefully great amount of time. "What sort of job do you have that requires you to work all day?"

He grimaced in the slightest, focusing at a point in the distance behind Arthur. "Nothing important, I assure you. I work two jobs."

"And you're a student at the same time?" asked Arthur, not unimpressed. "I can't say I envy you."

Francis chuckled. "It's not easy. But then again, is anything in life really easy?" A small smile played across his features as he gazed past Arthur with a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were recalling some hard-to-place memory.

Arthur made a mental note to himself that Francis was full of bullshit. He was about to snap back at him, but the sound of shrill ringing from his backpack interrupted him right as he began to speak. He pulled his cell phone out of his bag and checked the caller ID. "Sorry, I have to take this," he said, seeing his mother's contact picture flashing back at him from the screen. She didn't call often, so when she did, it was most likely something important.

"Go ahead," said Francis, waving him off as he took another sip of coffee.

Arthur pressed the "answer" button and held the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

As soon as his mother's voice answered from the other end of the line, Arthur could tell that something was wrong. "Arthur?" she said, her voice heavy. "I need you to come to the hospital."

"The hospital," he repeated. "What happened? Is someone hurt?" By now, Arthur was aware of Francis looking at him questioningly across the table, but that was the least of his worries at the moment.

There was silence on the other end of the line. "It's your grandfather. They say he doesn't have much time left. We knew this was going to happen, but…" There was another few moments of silence before she continued. "He's asking to see you. I think it would be best if you came to say goodbye."

Arthur stood up, fumbling with his backpack. "How serious is it?" he asked, unable to keep an anxious tone from poisoning his voice. This couldn't happen now… There was still so much that Arthur didn't know. If the old man was so intent on him visiting now, then it was bound to happen soon. Arthur hoped that he wouldn't be too late.

"I don't know," said his mother, irritation obvious her voice. "I'm sorry to call you away from school, but…" She didn't bother finishing the thought.

"Alright, I'm on my way. Tell him I'll be there soon." After scrawling the address for the hospital upon a piece of scrap paper, he hung up the phone and tossed it into his bag. "I'm sorry, I have to go," he said quickly to Francis as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

"What's going on?" said Francis, standing up as well.

"Grandfather's in the hospital," he said hurriedly. "It doesn't look good. I'm sorry to cut out on you so soon, but I really have to run." He turned away from Francis and began to make his way swiftly down the stairs.

His pace only quickened as he worked his way into the driving wind towards the parking garage. Ice still covered most of the ground, and staying upright was proving a difficult task as he attempted to avoid frozen puddles while trying to subdue the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his head. How was he going to make it to the hospital on his motorcycle? He'd driven twenty miles per hour below the speed limit on his way to the university that morning, much to the irritation of the other drivers, in an attempt to stay safe on the icy roads; it wasn't a good idea to throw caution to the wind on this one, but he had to get to the hospital, and he had to get there fast. There was no other alternative.

"If you tell me the address, I could give you a ride," came Francis's voice from behind him.

Arthur jumped, skidding on a patch of ice as he tried to locate the source of the voice. He hadn't realized that Francis had been behind him the whole time, even now when he was all the way at the parking garage. "Not necessary," said Arthur, recovering from the shock. "I've got a motorcycle, I'll be fine on my own." Arthur knew this wasn't quite the truth – if anything, he was afraid of crashing on the ice due to the instability of his own vehicle. But how could he accept the help of this total stranger who appeared to have nothing to gain from helping him?

"It's icy though," he pointed out. "It would be the final irony if you were to end up in an accident on the way to the hospital, wouldn't it?" He sighed, trying a different tactic. "Listen, I have my car with me today and I wasn't planning on going to my class anyway."

Arthur weighed his options, not bothering to pause or slow down at all. If he wanted to get there both quickly and safely, the best option would be to accept. Besides, Francis didn't seem to be in the same repulsively flirty mood in which he had been the day before. Had he really come to school that morning with no plans to go to class after coffee? "Fine," he said. "Just make it quick."

Francis grinned. "I'll do my best."

Francis's car was tiny, a little box of an automobile, but it would get them there far more safely than the motorcycle. Once he had the address to the hospital, they were on their way.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sound coming from the radio as it shifted in and out of tune. Arthur didn't know what to think. He hoped that he wouldn't be too late to speak with his grandfather. Now that Arthur fully believed him and his claims about the book, he was ready to listen for as long as he could in order to get information, advice, anything from the old man.

About halfway to the hospital, Francis spoke. "Are you feeling alright?" he asked.

Arthur put a hand over his eyes, leaning back against the seat. "Yeah. Fine," he said. It would be better just to leave it at that. He hardly knew Francis, after all. After a moment more of silence, he voiced a question that he should have asked long before. "Why are you doing this?"

"Care to elaborate?" asked Francis, not taking his eyes off the road.

"Why are you giving a total stranger a ride?" he asked simply.

"Ah, right." Francis tilted his head slightly. "It's the right thing to do, isn't it?" He gave him a sideways grin. "Besides, we're not really total strangers, after all."

Arthur let out a short _hmph_, turning to look out the window. "I… Thanks, then."

"That, and I didn't want to go to class."

"There it is," he muttered under his breath. "I knew it was something like that. Why else would you volunteer to help?"

"I don't believe you're in the position to be speaking like that, since I'm the one driving your sorry skin to the hospital," said Francis, grimacing slightly. "Don't push your luck."

"Right, sorry," said Arthur, mentally kicking himself for his insensitivity. Obviously Francis was just trying to help. But why? "I'm just having trouble thinking straight."

Francis gave a short nod. "I understand."

The rest of the trip passed in silence. The radio faded out of tune and finally ended in static, but neither of them made any attempt to turn it off. In the absence of the ever-present sound of rain against the glass, it was comforting to have some sort of white noise to listen to.

By the time that they reached the hospital, Arthur's nerves were stretched so much that he felt as if he were about to snap. The second the car stopped, he jumped out and hurried towards the glass doors that led to the front desk. After showing identification and proving his relation to his grandfather, he received the room assignment and began the long walk to the ward in which the man was being kept. Everything was the exact same clinical shade of white, and the sharp scent of antiseptic burned his nose as he searched for the room. Finally, he found the room labeled with the same number that he received at the front desk. With a shaky breath, he pushed open the door.

Arthur's grandfather was lying in a white hospital bed near the center of the room; Arthur's mother was seated beside him, her hands clasped over his as she quietly spoke. At the foot of the bed, two doctors in white jackets conversed over clipboards filled with charts. Marie was there as well, taking instructions from one of the doctors and paying no attention to Arthur as he entered the room.

The old man gave him what seemed to be the strongest smile that he could muster as Arthur made his way towards him. "Ah, there you are," he said. For the first time since Arthur could remember, his grandfather's voice was faltering.

Arthur sat beside his mother, who put a hand on his shoulder. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

His grandfather chuckled slightly. "Well, they're taking very good care of me." Was he really doing so badly that he had to avoid the question? The old man broke his gaze away to focus over Arthur's shoulder. "I see you've… you've brought a friend?"

Arthur turned, narrowing his eyes as he realized just who his grandfather was talking about. Sure enough, Francis was standing in the nearby doorway, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. How the hell had he managed to get in here? Arthur could hardly get an agitated word out before Francis was striding towards them, the awkwardness from just moments before appearing to have dissipated completely.

"Francis Bonnefoy," he said, approaching Arthur's grandfather and shaking his hand delicately. "Nice to meet you, although I'm sorry that it's under circumstances such as this."

"Ah, Mister Bonnefoy," said the old man, cracking a smile. "Yes, I have heard about you."

Francis raised his eyebrows. "Have you?" he asked with a sideways glance at Arthur, surprise evident in his voice.

Arthur glared down at the floor tiles, feeling color come to his face. He wanted to shout that it wasn't anything like that, that he didn't care enough to mention him, but that was hardly important right now. There were far more pressing matters to discuss.

"Hah, indeed I have." The old man turned his attention to Arthur's mother. "Speaking of which, do you all think that you could give us a minute alone? There is something that I must speak with Arthur about."

Arthur's mother looked between the three of them before she stood up. "Alright… I'll be out in the hall."

Francis shot a curious glance back at Arthur before following her. A moment later, Arthur heard his mother say, "The cafeteria is right down here, could I treat you to a cup of tea?" and Francis respond with a graceful affirmation. Arthur rolled his eyes at the sound of their receding voices before turning his attention to the old man.

"So, that was Mister Bonnefoy, then," he stated, bemused.

"Yes." Arthur narrowed his eyes. "And before you say anything, know that he is a total prick and I want nothing to do with him."

His grandfather shook his head. "You're going to have to," he said. "How did you both end up here, anyway? This is quite a surprise."

Arthur sighed. "I was going to ride my motorcycle here, but he offered to drive me since it was too icy."

"Good man," he said. "It seems like your assignment is coming right along, then."

He snorted. "Hardly," he said. "The first time I really talked to him was yesterday, and we barely spoke for five minutes. It's just a coincidence, really."

The man's stance changed immediately. "In that case, you have to get a move on," he said, settling back against his pillows. "If you don't yet know your task, then it's time you start to try to find out."

"But I don't know what I'm doing," said Arthur, trying to keep exasperation seeping into his voice. "I just follow the book's instructions, but I don't understand anything. Yesterday it told me to go meet him at the art building, and nothing happened. Am I doing something wrong?"

His grandfather looked around the room. They were alone now, the doctors and Marie having left shortly after Arthur's mother and Francis. "Do you have it with you?" he asked.

For a moment, Arthur feared that he had left it in the car. It would be more than problematic if Francis was to lay hands on it. However, a quick search through his bag, which he had had the good sense to bring into the hospital with him, revealed the thin book. He pulled it out and handed it over to his grandfather.

"I've been thinking," said the old man, "and I've come to a sort of conclusion." He thumbed to the back of the book with a look that could have been worry across his features. After reaching the page that contained a majority of the writing, he shook his head. "It's just as I thought," he told him, "although I can't say that's a good thing." He handed the book back. "Take a look," he said, a grim expression on his face.

Arthur flipped to the page with the newest updates regarding today's coffee meeting and hospital visit. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary," he said, his brow furrowing.

"Turn the page."

He did so. All that he saw was the backside of the previous page as well as the leather-bound back cover of the book. "Okay?" he said, still not seeing what his grandfather was getting at. Was his mind going?

The old man shook his head again. "Arthur, the book isn't supposed to be this short."

The room was completely silent as the heaviness of this declaration hit him. The book narrated Francis's life; that much was true. If there was just one page left, then was his life about to be cut short? And how? It was almost too difficult to believe. "So… You're saying…"

His grandfather nodded slowly. "In all of my years using this book, I have never once seen it with this few pages until the end – that is, up until a few days ago, when you brought it back to me. I think it would be wise to keep a close eye on our friend Francis."

Arthur focused again on the page. There was just one page between the latest entry and the end of the book. "Grandfather," he started slowly, suddenly hit with a foreboding realization. "When the book told me to meet with him yesterday, he was cleaning out his art locker. He had all of his supplies with him, but he's enrolled in an art class this semester. Do you think…?"

His grandfather didn't answer right away. "Perhaps he's preparing for something, you mean?" He sighed, sitting back against his pillows. "This is a difficult situation indeed. In all of my experience, the book has only worked to aid the person who possesses it. But this time… This time, I believe that it's the other way around. Perhaps instead of him helping you, you're supposed to help him. Maybe no one else will."

Arthur stared down at the back cover, the reality of the situation sinking in like a freezing cold knife. He'd seen circumstances such as this once before. He hadn't been able to do anything. He'd stood by, useless, as everything happened around him and watched as he created a world in which nothing mattered, in which everything that he held close to him was torn to shreds before his eyes. How was this time going to be any different?

As if reading his mind, his grandfather put a hand on his shoulder. "It won't be like last time, my boy. There was nothing that you could have done for him."

"This isn't about Al," he said sharply, not meeting his grandfather's gaze.

The old man was silent. "Look at me, Arthur," he said, holding Arthur by the shoulders and turning him so that their eyes met. "Listen. You can't change what happened. But this time, you can make things end differently. So tell me: are you going to sit by and watch like last time, or are you going to make a difference?"

Arthur closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. This wasn't what he expected to hear when he had walked into the room not ten minutes earlier. Every day, he did the best that he could to put what he had done behind him. And every day, he got a little closer to forgiving himself despite the fact that everything that had happened had been entirely his fault. Could he let himself watch the same thing happen once more? Could he live with himself having another death on his hands? Last time he hadn't had any warning, but this time… This time he could make sure that things ended differently.

After a long moment, he looked up at the wizened man. "I'll do it," he said, making up his mind. "Maybe this is my second chance. Maybe now I'll be able to make up for last summer. Francis may be an absolute prat, but I promise that I won't let the same thing that happened to Al happen to him too."

The old man smiled broadly back at him, although not without a hint of sadness. "There you go," he said, satisfaction in his voice. "I have faith in you. Now," he continued, sitting up and pressing the "assistance" button on the table beside his bed. "I'm feeling quite tired. I think I'll take a nap soon."

The complete change in attitude left Arthur in a state of mild shock for a moment. "Oh… Alright," he said, standing up. "I'll leave you, then."

"I believe in you," his grandfather reminded him. "Now, goodbye Arthur. I couldn't have asked for a better grandchild than you. Stay safe, and take care of your mother for me."

Arthur shifted uneasily. "Will I see you again?" he asked, apprehensive of what the answer would be.

His grandfather closed his eyes. "I'm afraid not. I've seen the end of my own story, child, and I am perfectly content with it." He sighed. "Unfortunately, I fear that this is the last time that you and I will have the chance to speak before then."

Arthur reached down to give his grandfather's hand a quick squeeze. "Thank you so much," he said. "Thank you for your guidance, and also for all that you did for me last summer. I'll never forget it."

The man smiled. "Of course, Arthur. Now, go get your mother. I doubt she'll be leaving anytime soon, and I'm the one who is expected to entertain her until she does."

Arthur couldn't help but laugh a bit at that. Even when he was so weak, his grandfather was still letting sarcastic comments fly like there was no tomorrow. At least he knew who he got it from.

The trip back out to the car passed quickly, what with Francis's constant commentary about how charming Arthur's mother was, about how he was glad that he was currently skipping his useless conversational French class, about how the cafeteria's tea had nothing on the campus centre's, about how he was surprised that Arthur's grandfather had recognized his name. But now that Arthur was truly listening, he realized how obvious it all was – that conversation was Francis's defense.

The more he spoke, the less he really said.

On the way back to campus, Arthur voiced the concern that had been on his mind ever since his conversation with his grandfather. "Are you alright?" he asked with a sideways glance at the man in the driver's seat beside him.

If Arthur hadn't been paying such close attention, he wouldn't have noticed Francis's smile falter for a fraction of a second. "Of course," he said, a grin plastered once more across his face as he gracefully changed the subject. "Do you want to stop for a pastry on the way back? I don't really want to go back to my French class yet. Would anyone care if we just skipped the rest of the day altogether?"

The first time that he had seen someone wear such a fake expression of happiness, he hadn't recognized what it was hiding. Now, however, he didn't know how he hadn't realized.

He'd never been extremely good at sensing the mood or the emotions of others, but now that he had something to go on, he could tell. It was the same look that he had seen in Alfred's eyes the year before, the same helpless expression which he kept barely hidden by a falsified smile.

He had the chance to make up for what happened last summer. And this time, there was no way that the events of the year before would repeat themselves. Not if he could help it.


	4. Chapter 4

_**TW for this chapter: **self-harm, mention of suicide_

_This chapter takes place a year in the past. Please read the Author's Note at the end._

* * *

It was all so surreal. Alfred wasn't supposed to stay with them for very long, just six months. At the beginning, Arthur had often felt that the day that Alfred would finally be gone could not come soon enough.

But he never imagined that it would happen like this. No, never like this.

Alfred arrived in late November of their final year of sixth form. Arthur disliked him immediately; that's all there was to it. He hadn't wanted anything to do with an exchange student in the first place. But, seeing as his mother was one of the main English teachers at the school, it was inevitable that his family would end up hosting a foreign exchange student when it came time to find a host and no other families had stepped up.

"We have an extra room, why should we deny a student from studying abroad when we have space to spare?" his mother had said.

"She's right, Arthur. Try to show a little selflessness every once in a while, alright?" his father had continued.

He hadn't been trying to be selfish. The thought of living with a stranger with an unpredictable personality left him with an uneasy feeling, one that refused to pass no matter who assured him that it would be okay. Arthur, having been outnumbered by his parents, found himself having to share his home less than one month later.

Alfred was obnoxious. There was no other word for it. He was loud, he talked with food in his mouth, and – shockingly enough – he unabashedly walked around the house in nothing but a pair of sweatpants. By the third day that he had been staying with the Kirklands, he seemed to have already settled in completely and was strutting around the house as if he owned the place.

Looking back, Arthur realized that Alfred had never meant any disrespect. It had definitely seemed that way at the beginning, though, especially at times when Alfred would dig through the pantry and complain loudly in that grating American accent about how there was "no goddamn food in this house."

Arthur couldn't stand him. The two of them were as different as night and day. Alfred was supposedly an adequate student – how else would he be accepted to a study abroad program? – yet Arthur had never seen him open a book. And even worse yet, Alfred always ended up doing something loud and obnoxious whenever Arthur was trying to study for his classes. Arthur would shut his door and stuff a towel against the bottom to block out the noise, but the sounds of heavy rock music or Grand Theft Auto or Alfred's quick-paced American-accented voice chattering away on the phone would always worm themselves into Arthur's room no matter what he did.

It wasn't until Christmas Eve that his impression of Alfred began to change.

It had snowed earlier that morning, and the landscape was laden with a muffled silence as the sun set that evening. Arthur had already gotten ready for bed and was indulging in a cup of herbal tea to help him sleep. He'd noticed something different, however, as he was walking back to his room after setting his mug in the kitchen with the intention of dealing with in the morning.

As he passed Alfred's room, he noticed that the light was still on. It was strange; whenever Alfred was there he was always crashing around or listening to music on his speaker system. Now, it was completely silent. No, not completely. As Arthur approached the door, he could hear an almost imperceptible sound.  
"Alfred?" he questioned, carefully pushing the door open. When he caught sight of the American, his suspicions were confirmed.

Alfred was sitting on his bed, his knees clutched to his chest and his lighted cell phone in his hand. His face was pressed to his knees and his shoulders were shaking. He gave no indication that he had heard Arthur at all.

"Alfred, what happened?" asked Arthur, a little louder this time.

He looked up, hurriedly wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his red hoodie. "Hey Arthur," he said, his voice heavy.

"Uhm," said Arthur, shifting his weight awkwardly in the doorway. "Can I come in?" He didn't necessarily want to get involved, especially with Alfred of all people, but he couldn't just leave someone to cry alone. Even if it was his generally rowdy housemate.

Alfred sniffed, blinking rapidly before putting his glasses back on. "Sure," he said, shifting a pile of blankets across the bed to make a spot for him.

Arthur sat beside Alfred as the latter pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin upon them, looking as if he were about to start crying again. "So… do you want to talk about it?" asked Arthur after a bit of silence.

Alfred snorted, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Nah, I don't really wanna bother you with this sort of shit. Doesn't really relate to you, I mean."

"It's obviously important, though," said Arthur. He'd never seen Alfred in any state other than enthusiastic and borderline illogically energetic. "Otherwise you wouldn't be acting like this."

Alfred was silent for a moment. Then he sighed, clicking the light off of his cell phone and setting it on the nightstand. "It's my… my little brother," he said, getting slightly stuck on the words. "There was an accident just now."

After a few more moments of silence, it seemed that Alfred wasn't going to elaborate. Arthur allowed him a bit of time to take a few deep breaths before softly urging him to continue. "What kind of accident?" he asked, being careful to keep an even tone in his voice.

Alfred pushed his glasses up his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes. "He just got his driver's license recently and he was driving up north with a friend… They just got a bunch of snow up there, you know? Well, he… Uhm…" Alfred was fighting to keep his voice steady. "There was a patch of black ice on the freeway and he… He spun into oncoming traffic, and—" Alfred stopped, a choked sob escaping his lips. "Matthew's not doing so well right now," he managed finally. "His friend's fine. The guy he was traveling with just called to tell me that Matt's in a coma."

Arthur didn't know what to say. He didn't have any siblings or even particularly close friends for that matter, and he could hardly imagine what Alfred must be experiencing. He knew he wasn't any good at comforting people, but he had to try. He tentatively reached out a hand towards him with the intent of laying it on his shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.

Before he could, however, Alfred was reaching for him. Alfred grabbed onto the front of Arthur's shirt and buried his face into the fabric upon his shoulder.

Arthur's first instinct was to jump back – he always found it uncomfortable being in such close proximity to anyone. Before the reaction took hold of him, however, he caught himself and instead put a comforting arm over Alfred's shoulders. As far as Arthur knew, Matthew was Alfred's only brother. It must be traumatic to lose someone so close to him. _No, not lose_, he reminded himself. No, there was still hope. People come out of comas all the time, right?

Alfred wrapped his arms around Arthur's back, holding on tightly as if Arthur was the only thing holding him tethered to the earth. After a moment of silence other than Alfred's continued, uneven breathing, Arthur did the same. Even if Alfred was a total ass 99% of the time, there was no one else who would be there for him now.

If only in the slightest, Alfred seemed comforted. After a while, his fretfulness dissipated into deep breaths and his grip around Arthur's waist slackened. Not long after, he had fallen asleep heavily on Arthur's shoulder. It was understandable; after that shock, he must be emotionally exhausted. Arthur hadn't dealt with anything like this in the past, but he made an effort to try to understand as best as he could.

Things were better after that. Well, better between the two of them. Alfred seemed to think of Arthur as a friend after that night, and Arthur treated him with a polite tolerance in return.

However, Alfred was different after that. He no longer made an absurd ruckus in his room; loud music didn't play from his stereo speakers, and his phone conversations were hushed and concise.

Matthew's friend, Gilbert, the one who had been in the car during the accident, called Alfred every evening to let him know how Matt was progressing. So far, nothing had changed. Alfred brought up the grades that had slipped so much due to slacking off for the first few months; however, he did this primarily by immersing himself with an almost unhealthy obsession in his schoolwork, and he didn't leave his room apart from the times when his friends would come by looking for him. Even then, he left the house with a distracted look behind his pasted grin.

Arthur tried to give him space. Frankly, he was relieved that he no longer had to deal with such a boisterous housemate. He felt guilty for thinking in such a way, but he would be lying if he said that it wasn't easier to deal with being around him now.

It wasn't until early February that Arthur realized just how dire Alfred's situation was.

Alfred had gotten out of the shower half an hour before. At least, the water had stopped running then. He usually left the bathroom mere minutes after the water pipes quieted. Tonight, however, the door was shut tight.

"Alfred?" called Arthur, rapping his knuckles against the door.

No response.

"Hey, Alfred, you okay?"

Still nothing.

"Honestly, if you're just mucking around in there then you should think about coming out soon."

Not a sound.

Arthur bit his lip. This really wasn't like him. "Alfred, I'm coming in. You'd better be decent."

He wasn't prepared for the scene that he was met with on the other side of the door.

Alfred, clad just in his usual sweatpants, was curled up on the cold tile floor of the bathroom. His arms were wrapped loosely around his torso, but there was a long trail of what was unmistakably blood running down one of them and spattered on the tile floor. Beside him was what looked like the blade of a disposable razor.

"Alfred," breathed Arthur, dropping to his knees beside him. "Alfred, can you hear me?" he asked, panic arising in his voice. He was beginning to feel dizzy at the sight of the blood, but he squinted his eyes and took a deep breath to clear his mind. "Alfred," he said again, louder this time as he tapped Alfred's face.

Alfred opened his eyes and looked up at Arthur with an unfocused gaze. "What?" he muttered.

Arthur breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Thank god," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Are you alright?"

Alfred just stared at him. "Is that a trick question?"

That was a yes, Arthur supposed. Well, as alright as it was possible for him to be while bleeding from the wrist. Which reminded him. Arthur stood and began rummaging through the cabinets. He returned not long after to where Alfred still sat, leaning against the sink and staring blankly at the wall opposite him.

"May I?" asked Arthur, holding out a hand.

Alfred didn't even look at him. "I can bandage it myself, you know," was all that he said. However, after a bit of coaxing, he held out his left wrist toward Arthur.

Arthur dampened a tissue with hydrogen peroxide and began to clean the dried blood from Alfred's arm. Arthur couldn't imagine what could have happened to cause this. Of course, Alfred had his own reasons and Arthur had no right to know if Alfred didn't want to tell him. But he found himself thinking, for the first time, that if there was a way that he could help Alfred, then he wanted to be able to do so.

Had Matthew gotten worse? But that wouldn't cause Alfred to do something like this. Matthew was still alive, right? Sure, Alfred hadn't seemed too well recently in the scheme of things, but was there something that specifically triggered this?

They sat in complete silence until Arthur spoke. "So… did something happen?"

A grim expression made its way onto Alfred's face. "Yeah. Something happened."

"Matthew?" he guessed.

Alfred shook his head. "Nah, Matt's doing just as badly as always. They don't expect him to change anytime soon."

As Alfred fell into silence once more, Arthur began pressing another clean piece of gauze to the wound. The bleeding had apparently stopped before Arthur had arrived, but there were trails of dried blood running from the cuts. Evidently, there had been a lot of bleeding a little while before, and Alfred had done nothing to stop it. Part of him wondered if Alfred would really be okay. "Something new, then?"

He hadn't noticed the silent tears going down Alfred's face. "Yeah something new," he said his voice strained. "My boyfriend broke up with me yesterday. We got in a huge fight and he ended it." Alfred took a deep breath to steady his voice. "And today I woke up with hundreds of messages waiting for me, from my classmates. Not good things." He pulled his arm out of Arthur's grasp in order to run his hands through his hair. "He outed me to the entire school. And… and my parents got wind of it, too." He slowly offered his arm once more to Arthur, who worked once more on bandaging it. "I don't know if you know this, but people aren't really tolerant of that sort of thing where I'm from."

Arthur hardly knew what to say. Having never been in a serious relationship, he hadn't ever had any sort of sympathy for those getting over breakups. He didn't want to be insensitive, per se, but he just didn't see what was so important about deciding you weren't going to marry someone. That's what dating was for, right?

"You're gay, then." Arthur presented it as a statement rather than a question.

Alfred's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "If that's the way you want to put it, then yeah." He looked away. "Is that a problem?"

Of course it wasn't. Well, not particularly. It was definitely strange to think that the attractive foreign sports star who had his choice of any girl he wanted preferred men instead, but it wasn't unheard of. "I'm a little surprised," Arthur admitted. "But no, it's not a problem."

Saying that Alfred looked taken aback would be an understatement. He looked positively bewildered for a moment before he said, "Are you serious? You don't care?"

Arthur shook his head, tying the end of the bandage to keep it in place. "Not really. I don't know what sort of reaction to expect from Texans, but it should be better here, if anything. Not that you should advertise it, I mean." Arthur was starting to stumble over his words. He wasn't used to talking about these sorts of things.

"That's not what I asked," said Alfred, looking back at him. "I asked if you care."

"It's not my business who you choose to love," he said slowly, casting his gaze at the tile floor. He didn't want to talk about this. But, he reminded himself, Alfred was already suffering, and if this would help him feel better, then so be it. "I mean, you're still just Alfred to me."

He was quiet for a moment, his features more relaxed. "Thanks, dude. That means a lot."

Arthur ran his fingertips absently over the smooth ridges of the bandages. "Why did you do this? Having someone leave you isn't a reason to kill yourself, is it?"

Alfred looked at him, perplexed. "No way, I didn't want to die." He stopped. "Well, I… I did, but… I wouldn't…" He paused again. "I just didn't know what to do. There was nothing that I _could_ do. Except this. I just saw it sitting there and figured that it might help. Cause I fucked up so badly this time. You know?"

"I can't say I do," said Arthur. He was relieved that Alfred wasn't concerning himself too heavily with death-related thoughts, but everything about this situation was still worrisome. He took the blade from Alfred's palm and closed his own fingers around the metal, wincing as his skin pressed against the sharp edges. "I want you to tell me if you feel this way again. I don't want to see you hurt."

Alfred stared at him, a mixture of confusion and thankfulness on his face. "Sure. Thanks, man."

Arthur stood. "You should get some rest," he said.

Alfred nodded and pulled himself to his feet. After a moment, though, he wobbled and leaned on the counter for support. "I'm fine," he said, noticing Arthur's concerned look.

"Are you sure?" asked Arthur, offering a hand to Alfred.

He waved him away. "Yeah. I'll be okay. I've just got to rest a bit." He grimaced, but found his balance. "Thanks though, Arthur. I mean it."

Arthur helped him to his room, brought him a glass of orange juice and a biscuit, and made sure that Alfred was settled in before heading to his own room.

He found it hard to sleep that night. Alfred had been living at his house for almost three months, but how he was realizing that he hardly knew him at all. Arthur knew that it would have been impossible to know that Alfred was gay without him explicitly saying so, but it was hard to think that he hadn't realized that he would be so quick to hurt himself like that when things got particularly bad.

Alfred didn't try anything else for the next month or so. Arthur hid the blade in his own desk drawer and checked every night to make sure that it was still there. It always was. He hated it and what it stood for regarding his temporary housemate, who he found himself disliking less and less with every encounter. Ever since that night, all of his anger towards Alfred had dissipated to be replaced with something more along the lines of sympathy or understanding. He didn't know what he could do for Alfred except for be there for him. So that's what he tried to do.

And then, finally, at the end of March, things began to change.

* * *

_Author's Note: _

_Hello, sorry for wasting space here with a note. I guess this is a sort of disclaimer, actually. I wanted to put out there that__ I really mean no offense to anyone by writing this. I stated in Chapter 1 that I'm using this fic as a personal release and as something to project my thoughts and struggles onto. I'm writing what I know here, so I really hope that I didn't offend anyone with this chapter... _

_With that said, I know that there are only a couple of die-hard fans sticking around at this point. Thank you all for staying with me! _


	5. Chapter 5

**TW for this chapter: death, blood**

_Quick thank you to Yukai707, TaliaLion234, and zoewinter1 for their continued support and reviews. I really appreciate you three!_

* * *

It had taken a while for Alfred to recover from the shocks of that winter. About a month after everything had settled down, however, he was back in a more bright and energetic state. He'd made a surprising amount of friends, in fact, a rowdy bunch who seemed to wield the most power and popularity in the student body. And somehow, they had ended up getting a group together to get the faculty to agree to host a sort of Prom for the graduating students. They called it "School Formal," but it was a dance nonetheless.

The dance was scheduled for midway through the spring quarter; Alfred, who was pouting about missing his high school Prom, was ecstatic. "It's bound to be some weird British bastardization of Prom," Alfred had confided to Arthur a few days before the dance. "But it's still Prom!" So, in the final days of the month, Arthur found himself being dragged along with Alfred to the dance.

He hated it, to be honest. It was too loud, and he was surrounded by far too many people.

Alfred had easily found a date for the night, a short girl who tied her dark hair up with red ribbons and who hung out with the same group of people as Alfred did. "Find a date, dude," he'd told Arthur a week or so earlier. "Going to Prom alone is the hugest loser-move on the planet." Arthur quickly pulled the conversation to a halt by telling him that, first of all, it wasn't Prom, and second of all, he couldn't care less whether he had a date or not. And now, he couldn't believe that he had allowed himself to be dragged along. The atmosphere of the room was stifling, and it was all that he could do not to bolt out the door.

Around halfway through the evening, however, he made his way into the front hall. The loud music still reverberated through the open entry room, but at least he was the only one here and didn't have to worry about brushing elbows with three hundred other students. The music from the main room left a loud ringing in his ears even though he was now in a quiet environment. He let himself fall heavily onto a sofa at the edge of the room and draped an arm across his eyes to block out the light from the lamps around the walls, glad for a moment to relax.

"Hey, Arthur!"

Arthur stifled a groan. He'd come out here to avoid talking with or being around people, but apparently that was too much to ask for. He took his arm away from his eyes and let it drop heavily upon the sofa. "If you're just here to yell about how great the dance is, then save your breath."

Alfred pouted, moving Arthur's arm out of the way and taking a seat beside him. He crossed his legs and threw his arms over the back of the sofa in what seemed to be an attempt to take up as much space as possible. "Nah, I was looking for you. Thought you'd be here. Y'alright?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" said Arthur, stifling a yawn. It was becoming far too late to be awake. He just wanted to go home and settle into his warm bed, since winter's cold had not yet released its hold on the country and the trip back home would be sure to give him a chill. "Just too many people, that's all."

Alfred let out a muffled laugh. "I figured." He fidgeted a bit before continuing. "Actually, I had something that I wanted to ask you."

Arthur looked over at him, raising his eyebrows. What could Alfred possibly have to ask him that couldn't wait until they got home? He didn't particularly want to do him any favors at the moment, so if he wanted something then he'd best ask someone else. "Yeah? What is it?"

Alfred was the kind of person to wear his emotions on his sleeve. Now, however, Arthur couldn't read his expression. Was he worried? Anxious? Elated? Some combination of the three? "There was something that I was wondering. I just…" He paused for a moment before shaking his head. "Never mind. There's no way. Sorry for bothering you." With that, Alfred stood and made his way back towards the dance, his hands stuck defiantly in his pockets.

Arthur didn't move for a moment as he considered what had just happened. He didn't really want to go back into the stuffy main dance room, but he always jumped at challenges such as this. He knew himself better than Alfred did, didn't he? How was Alfred supposed to know what answer Arthur was going to give to whatever question he had if he didn't ask it?

Besides, he had an idea about what Alfred was talking about. He'd caught the glances, the smiles, the lingering looks when Alfred thought he wasn't looking. And somehow, it stirred something within him. He'd never felt this with anyone else before, and it scared him at first. About another man, no doubt. And _Alfred_ of all people.

As much as he hated to admit it, he'd given it some amount of thought. Not even some; he'd entertained the idea of what it would be like to be involved with Alfred more often than he cared to admit. Before he helped Alfred through his situation with his ex, he himself hadn't thought too much about himself in that respect. He'd never felt anything of a romantic nature from anyone, woman or man. Social interactions weren't one of his priorities, and he spent more time on his schoolwork and academics than on building relationships. That's to what he attributed this lack of romantic interest in the past.

These foreign thoughts that he had been keeping inside of him for over a month regarding Alfred were threatening to surface as he caught Alfred's wrist during his attempt to escape back into the stuffy dance hall. Something told him that he should feel bad about stopping him. But he was right there, and if there was something important that he had to say then this was the time. Arthur tried to remind himself not to get his hopes up too high as Alfred turned back towards him.

"Hey, I told you it was no big deal," Alfred muttered, an uncharacteristic crease between his eyebrows.

Arthur pursed his lips. "No, this is important," he told him. "If this is about what I think it is, then I'd very much like to have this conversation."

His brow furrowed in confusion. "Uh, okay," he said, shifting awkwardly.

Arthur tightened his grip on Alfred's wrist. "Come on, let's get away from the door. It's too loud."

Alfred made some resistance, but followed him reluctantly back to the couch.

"So," said Arthur as they settled back onto the couch from before. "What was it that you were going to say?"

"It doesn't matter too much, I already told you that." Alfred looked down at his feet, scuffing the ground with the toe of one shoe. Arthur had never before seen him this uncomfortable, save for the weeks during which he was dealing with the situations with Matthew and with his ex-boyfriend. "I just…" He looked back up at Arthur. "Don't laugh, 'kay?" After a moment, he took a deep breath and continued. "When you helped me out a while back, you said that you don't care who I love, right?"

Arthur felt his heartbeat quicken for a moment before he reminded himself to stay calm. Was this conversation really headed in the direction he thought it was? He could hardly believe it. "Yes, I recall saying something along those lines," he mumbled, trying to keep his speech professional until he knew for sure what Alfred was talking about.

Alfred was stuttering again, speaking in a muffled tone that was so unlike him. "Well, I guess I just got to thinking after that…" He ran a nervous hand through his hair. "You really understand me. Or at least accept me, which is a lot more than my friends back home can do. And I guess I was just wondering…" Another deep breath before he quickly blurted out the rest of his thoughts. "I like you a lot, Artie, and I was wondering if you maybe like me too."

It took Arthur a second to process the rapid thoughts that Alfred had let out. Once he did, however, he could hardly stop himself from smiling. "Of course I do," he said, a laugh escaping his lips. "You're the closest thing that I have to a friend, after all." As soon as he said the words, he wondered if that was the right way to say how he was feeling.

Apparently it wasn't, since Alfred just grimaced. "I don't think we're on the same page here, man. I mean, I feel the same way about you that I did about Ivan, before–" he didn't finish verbalizing his thought.

"No, I understand," said Arthur, feeling himself start to smile again. He hadn't thought that he'd be smiling so much this evening; then again, he had anticipated only the dance and not anything remotely like this conversation which he was now having with Alfred.

Alfred looked back at him, a dazed expression on his face. "What?" he muttered, looking as if he didn't believe what he was hearing.

"I mean," said Arthur, backtracking a bit. "I don't necessarily know why, since you're loud and obnoxious and never seem to know when it's a good time to speak, but I feel the same way about you."

The confused expression was replaced almost immediately with a grin. "Wait, no way," he said. "You're not kidding? I thought you… Really I was just trying to come clean with you because it feels really weird living in the same house while thinking like this and–"

Arthur stopped his rambling with a wave of his hand. "No, I'm completely serious. I know that I'm really bad at this kind of thing, but if you're willing to put up with me, then I'd…" He stopped, trying to decide how to say it. "Well, I'd be happy to give it a try, at least."

Alfred looked as if he could have hugged him.

The two left the dance early that night, taking advantage of the late hour to stay up until four in the morning on Alfred's bed, talking more than they ever had together during the many months that Alfred had been living with the Kirklands. It would be over a week before Alfred initiated the first kiss, a slightly awkward affair with bumping noses and foreheads that left them both laughing before making another, more successful attempt.

They lived in that way for two glorious months, making the most of the evenings when Arthur's parents worked late to stay up talking until they couldn't speak any longer, or resting in each other's arms in the late evening with the sound of rain running down the windowpanes to lull them to sleep.

If Arthur had known at the time what sort of gruesome end this would lead to, perhaps he would have been able to savor their last days together.

* * *

It happened a week before Alfred was set to leave for the United States. They'd put off thinking about it – when they'd gotten together, the two months that were left before Alfred would have to leave seemed like more than enough time. However, those months seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. Soon enough, they were planning their final date before Alfred's departure.

Like every day during the preceding week, they were met that morning with sunshine and a gentle breeze. They'd argued about the venue but the weather was too good to miss. So, with a picnic basket full of lunch and a bottle of wine packed in the back of Arthur's father's little car, they set off for a distant beach that Alfred had chosen from a slightly-outdated tourism map.

Once they arrived, Arthur wasn't quite sure as to what there was to do. After all, the water was far too cold and dangerous to swim, and he didn't know of any sports that could be played with just two people.

However, Alfred seemed enthused out of his mind to be there. He immediately took a quick run around what seemed to be most of the entire beach before jogging back to Arthur, who had taken it upon himself to bring the basket along on the long walk from the car. "You live on an island, how come you never go to the beach? This is awesome!"

Arthur couldn't see what was so "awesome" about it. Despite the warm temperature of the air, the water was still bound to be freezing and he didn't like the looks of the waves crashing heavily onto the rocks just offshore. He hoped that Alfred didn't expect him to swim.

But being in Alfred's company was enough, really. After all, they only had a week before he had to go back to the United States. And although they were content to get out and enjoy the time that they had left, the fact that their time was running out still lurked in the back of his mind.

They'd enjoyed their picnic out on the sand after Alfred had calmed down enough to sit still. Alfred had made sandwiches for the two of them and Arthur had made little cakes and packed a thermos of tea, which they happily enjoyed on the bank of the cold ocean as the rare sunshine shone down upon them.

Alfred seemed just as energetic after they finished the bottle of wine ("I need to get as much of this as I can before I get back to the States, this is illegal there"), but its effect on Arthur was to make him warm and sleepy. He'd brought a book along with him, but he really just felt like taking a nap. It was warm enough outside; the only thing he'd have to worry about was getting a sunburn from sleeping too long, and he was sure that Alfred would get bored and wake him up before he had a chance to let that happen.

So, when Alfred started talking big about his swimming abilities not much later, Arthur promptly tried to shut him down. "I don't care how good a swimmer you are, honestly," he said, leaning back and resting the open book over his face to block the sun from his eyes. "I'm not swimming. It's too cold, and I'm horrible at it anyway."

"Aw, buzzkill," pouted Alfred. He slumped over on the blanket, seeming as though he wasn't going to make any more of a fuss than that. A few minutes later, however, he was back on his feet. "Hey Arthur, I bet that I can swim all the way to that island out there!"

Arthur nudged the book just a tad so that he could see in the direction in which Alfred was pointing. "That's not an island," he said, closing his eyes once more. "Get your head out of the clouds. It's just a big rock."

"Wow, no fun allowed," Alfred replied, although his voice was still as bright as it had been before Arthur began making snide comments. "I'll bet it's a lot bigger than it looks. It's pretty far out, right?"

"Alfred, shut up." Arthur snapped his book shut, sitting up and fixing Alfred with an agitated gaze. "Honestly, I'm trying to rest. And I know it's _you_ I'm asking, but could you please just shut the hell up for five minutes?"

Alfred was surprisingly quiet for a few moments as Arthur settled back onto the blanket beside the picnic basket. "Rude," said Alfred after a bit.

For a few peaceful minutes, it seemed that Alfred was actually going to give him a moment of rest. No such luck, however. Not much later, Alfred piped up once more. "Hey, how much you wanna bet I can swim all the way there?"

Arthur gritted his teeth in irritation. Was he _seriously_ incapable of shutting his mouth for more than five minutes? Honestly, maybe it was _good_ that Alfred was leaving soon. He was a handful and Arthur usually found him hard to handle. Now, at least, he had a chance to make him go away for a bit. "I will personally give you ten pounds if you can swim all the way to that damned rock and back," he spat. He hated how much that sounded like a bribe, but all that he cared about was having a moment of peace and quiet. Even though Alfred was leaving soon, he still wanted to have a bit of peace every once in a while. And if that meant sending Alfred off to do who knows what, then so be it.

"I'm just gonna have a bunch of fun without you then. Hold this, 'kay?" he stripped off his shirt and jacket and tossed them onto Arthur before turning around and bounding into the water.

Arthur should have stopped him. The waves had been looking particularly large and dangerous, and, looking back, the water was too treacherous for even the most experienced swimmers.

He couldn't see Alfred – he was already starting to feel a bit drowsy and was paying little or no attention to what shenanigans his boyfriend was getting up to – but he could hear his voice. "Fucking freezing!" Alfred shouted from the water. "Hey, ya think I could swim to France from here?"

"Didn't you say you were going to swim to the rock?" Arthur called back, not bothering to look up.

"Dude, it's really far out. Give me some time." Alfred's voice was already starting to sound muffled and distance. "And hell yeah I'm swimming there, that money you promised me is gonna buy me lunch at the airport on Friday. You'll be sorry you agreed to this!"

"Aright, whatever," muttered Arthur. He was glad that he finally had a moment to rest. He didn't know how Alfred was still so energetic so shortly after lunch. After the wine that they had had, all that Arthur wanted to do was sleep. The sun shone down on him, the light warm against his skin, and he found himself peacefully nodding off on the blanket.

When he woke with a jolt some time later, it took him a while to recall exactly where he was. The air had turned cold while he rested, and the sun was blocked out by thick gray clouds. He sat up groggily, the book falling heavily into his lap. He looked around for Alfred as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes. The space beside him was empty, and he didn't see him anywhere else on the beach.

"Alfred?" he called, standing up and catching his balance. How long had he been out? Surely not so long that Alfred was still out at his so called "island." Arthur squinted out to the horizon, focusing on the rock to which Alfred had swam. He didn't seem to be there, either. "Alfred, this isn't funny," he called, louder this time, as a feeling of general unease came over him.

Where could he possibly be? The beach was a small one and there weren't any hiding places nearby. He could have gone back to the car, of course, but wouldn't he have stopped by to gloat to Arthur first? Of course he would have. Did that mean that Alfred was still in the water? But he wasn't at the island, apparently…

Arthur scanned the ocean surrounding the beach for any sign of him, trying not to give in to the growing sense of panic. It wasn't worth it. Because Alfred was fine, right? He'd been boasting earlier about how good of a swimmer he was, saying that he'd been on the swim team back in America for years. So there was no way that he –

He nearly felt his heart stop as his gaze fell upon a form draped over the scraggly rocks just offshore. As he watched, a murky brown wave tinted dark with debris and foam crashed over the figure, who seemed to hunch in the slightest against the impact. It only took him a moment to realize that there was no doubt that it was Alfred.

Arthur tossed the jacket and shirt onto the sand and ran as fast as he could through the freezing water towards Alfred, trying hard to ignore the blatant trails of red streaming down Alfred's body that he could see even from this distance. The icy water crashed relentlessly against him and the cold made him feel numb all over, but still he pressed on in a panicked determination.

Another freezing wave crashed over Alfred as Arthur made his way through the water. Alfred was still clinging feebly to the face of the rock as Arthur reached him at long last.

Alfred's back was hunched against the cold and the sea spray, and he shuddered as Arthur put his hands on his shoulders. There were deep scratches across his back, no doubt caused by an impact with the rock, and his blonde hair was tinged a deep red at the crown. "Arthur?" he responded shakily. "Man, I fucked up…"

"Hold on, I've got you," said Arthur hurriedly. He put himself between the ocean and Alfred, taking most of the impact as another wave crashed over them. "Can you walk?" After a shake of the head from Alfred, he draped Alfred's arm over his shoulder and held as much of his weight as he could before making his way back to the beach. The headache that was intensifying behind his eyes pounded relentlessly and his legs refused to work, but at long last, Arthur found himself safely back on dry land with Alfred.

What happened after that was a blur of confusing memories. He shakily dialed 999 on his cell phone and spoke hurriedly with a receptionist on the other end who assured him that everything would be okay and that an ambulance was on its way.

After hanging up, he tossed his phone to the sand and knelt beside Alfred. "Alfred?" he said, cupping his boyfriend's face in his hands. He couldn't stop his voice from trembling as Alfred reached up to hold one of his hands in a slack grip. The cuts on his arms and back didn't seem life-threatening, but he could only hope that the wound on the crown of his head was less serious than it looked.

Alfred was silent for a moment, staring up at the sky above them. "I don't want to die here," he mumbled, his voice garbled with delirium as he pressed a hand against a gash across his arm in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

"You won't, it's not that serious," Arthur lied, stripping off his jacket and pressing it to one of the wounds. "Just hold on, okay?" He was trying his best to keep his voice steady – if he made his complete panic apparent then he risked scaring Alfred, who looked scared enough already – but he couldn't stop his hands from trembling as he held on tightly to Alfred's hand. The scratches on his arms and back had stopped bleeding. They must have hurt like the devil, but they were shallow and didn't worry him in retrospect. No, there was a more pressing matter. The wound on Alfred's head, although hidden by his red-stained hair, was still bleeding profusely. If the ambulance didn't arrive soon, Alfred would definitely be in trouble. It looked like a scene from a movie, like a film that Arthur would have regarded with equal parts of boredom and disbelief. But this was all too horribly real. The water and sand around them was tinged with an expanding sheath of red and Arthur felt like he was going to be sick.

He was growing more and more panicked with every minute that passed. Where the hell were the paramedics? They _were_ far away from the nearest hospital, but there was no way that it should be taking this long.

By the time the sirens were audible nearly ten minutes later, Alfred's grip had gone slack. His fingers, previously entwined with Arthur's, were now limp and ashen. He'd stopped responding just minutes before, and the blood coming from the wounds had slowed to thin trickles.

Arthur had held onto a single thread of hope since the ambulance ride to the hospital. After all, he was no doctor. There was a chance, a _very good _chance, that he had overestimated the severity of Alfred's injuries and that he was going to be completely okay. It wasn't until Arthur was sitting in the waiting area of the emergency room trying to explain to his frantic parents what had happened that he realized the gravity of the situation. If Alfred was stabilizing, wouldn't they have already sent someone out to let them know, or at least let the three of them go in to talk to him?

He realized then that Alfred hardly had a chance of pulling through.

And he was right.

* * *

Arthur had always imagined that it would be agonizing to stand beside the coffin of someone he loved. Now, however, he felt nothing. He was cold, empty, devoid of feeling. He couldn't cry. He'd had enough of that during the past few days – in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, in the waiting area of the intensive care unit, on his front porch where he stood to tell Alfred's friends what had happened, on the plane to the States – and now, when everyone expected him to show some sort of emotion, he couldn't.

The paramedics had spoken with him the day after the incident to fill him in on what had happened. He'd been right – Alfred's head wound had been just as threatening as it had looked. Not enough to damage his brain, but enough to allow him to bleed out. Blood loss. In the end, blood loss was what took him. It was strange to think that someone such as Alfred had fallen to a fate such as this, when a few minutes made all the difference. Just five minutes less in the water, five minutes sooner on the part of the ambulance, would have saved him.

Everyone around him knew. He could feel their eyes on him. Their accusing stares burned into him from all directions but he couldn't bring himself to face them. He knew what they would say. _Why didn't you do something? Why didn't you try to help? It's your fault. We trusted you, and you let this happen. It's your fault._

He knew that he deserved their scorn. After all, it was his own selfishness that killed Alfred in the end. If he hadn't valued taking a damned nap over spending time with his boyfriend during his last week in the country, Alfred would have gotten help from the doctors sooner. Hell, maybe he wouldn't have gotten in the water in the first place if Arthur hadn't stupidly bribed him to risk his neck simply because he was temporarily annoyed by his lighthearted personality. Arthur knew that he was to blame. But as he stood beside the casket, running his fingers absently over the smooth wooden ridges, he felt nothing.

He couldn't take his eyes off of him. It scared him to think that this would be the last time that he would see him. The horrifying trails of blood had been washed from his face, and the stained, untidy mop of hair was back to its normal golden color. His blue eyes were closed behind familiar rectangular glasses frames, eyes the shade and hue of the very ocean that took his life and which would never open again.

All around him was a sea of black. Though Alfred had been living with his uncle in Texas during school, the funeral was taking place in California where he used to live with his parents and brother. It was far too hot for all of this dark clothing, but it would be indecent to do something about it. Arthur did nothing to ease the choking sensation around his neck from the tightness of the collar of his shirt. It wasn't even the suit that was so suffocating. It was the crushing silence of the room, the overwhelming sickly sweet scent of potted lilies, the sweltering California spring heat settling over them like a woolen blanket, the gazes thick with hatred crashing in on him from all sides.

The sensation of Alfred's hand going slack in his was etched into Arthur's senses as if with a hammer and chisel into marble. It was then, and only then, that the reality hit him – Alfred was the first person who Arthur could say that he ever loved in such a way. He hadn't been able to admit that to himself when they were together. Part of him had felt that if he conceded this point, the point that he really was in love, that he conceded defeat. And he didn't want to allow that to happen. Despite how many times Alfred had told him that he loved him, he'd kept his mouth shut.

And now, when he was ready to say it, Alfred wouldn't be able to hear him.

It was surreal, meeting people an hour or so before the service who he had only heard about through Alfred. At the very beginning, a white-haired boy who introduced himself as Gil began to speak with him in a ridiculously thick German accent and less-than-perfect English. He was the only one that day who seemed sincerely sorry for Arthur's loss. He'd been speaking with Alfred for the past few months, keeping him updated on his brother's condition, so he knew about the two of them. "Mattie ist very better!" he had exclaimed at one point with excitement at Matt's improved condition, drawing disapproving glances from the other patrons.

From there, it all went downhill. Arthur was approached next by a towering blonde who couldn't be older than he, but was at least a foot taller. Arthur recalled immediately who he was as soon as he introduce himself as Ivan. Arthur had never before wanted so badly to punch someone as he thought of all of the needless pain that this boy had put Alfred through so few months ago. But he refrained from his urge – he could see the blame in Ivan's eyes more than anyone else's.

That is, until he met Alfred's parents. They were polite at first. They wanted to know what happened, how close the two of them were, if Alfred had been happy in the United Kingdom. Normal things. And Arthur lied through his teeth. He didn't tell them how broken Alfred had been when Arthur pulled him off of those jagged rocks. He didn't tell them that he was romantically involved with their son. He didn't tell them about the crying, about the cutting, about the staying up all night wondering what he did wrong. No, it was better that they didn't know. One of their sons was lying alone in the hospital, and the other was going into ground. Even in his current state of mind, Arthur realized that the information that he had was information that they could do without. If they held in their minds that their son had been happy until the end, then that forged belief in itself was a small victory.

It wasn't until he was alone in his hotel room hours later that he lost it. He yelled, kicking the meager contents of his luggage across the floor as all of the pent-up emotions from the previous week came crashing out in a single wave. He'd collapsed onto his bed when the aftermath of his rage left him weak at the knees, and did something he never thought that he would do – he pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket and dialed the phone number of Gilbert Beilschmidt, a complete stranger, for help.

The two of them stayed up talking through the whole night in the hotel room. It wasn't that Arthur wanted to talk about Alfred, although it was unavoidable. He just wanted someone to be there. Even after years of being alone, the void left in Alfred's absence was vast. He just wanted someone to listen to, to know that he wasn't insane or deserving of living in loneliness.

And Gilbert understood that. He was all too happy to guide the conversation once he realized what it was that Arthur called him there for. Arthur quickly got used to Gilbert's thick accent, strange speaking pattern, and eccentric personality as he spoke. Gilbert told him everything that came to mind, it seemed. He told him all about his home in Germany, how he had come over to the States on an exchange program like Alfred's, how he had met Matthew at school and how they immediately became friends. "It's the same, yes?" he had said after telling him about the accident which had left Matt in this state. "I love Matt but he knows not. Late too much. The same for you, yes?"

Indeed, it was much the same. But unlike Arthur, Gilbert still had hope. There was a chance that Matthew would wake up still, and they'd get their happy ending. Arthur, however, had said goodbye to Alfred for the last time just hours before.

Gilbert saw him off at the airport the next day with the assurance that he would come visit him sometime when he was back in Germany. "Call please if you need the to talk," he shouted in broken English as Arthur boarded the plane.

The flight back to England was the longest ten hours of Arthur's life. He couldn't sleep, and he felt too tired and sick to accept the food or drinks that the stewardesses brought by periodically. Ten hours to do nothing but think. He thought of Gil, and how he still had a chance to make things right with Matt. He thought of Alfred, of course – about how he couldn't do the right thing when it mattered most. He thought about Alfred's parents, about Ivan, about all of the other patrons whose gazes reminded him just how dearly his mistake had cost them.

And he thought about himself. There was no one else back in England who he could call a close friend. No one had been close enough to him to know that he and Alfred were together. Of course he'd get some amount of license for being the housemate of the deceased, but it wouldn't be long before people would begin to accuse him of playing it up for attention. He didn't want attention. He wanted it all to stop.

He wanted everything to slow down, to pause just for a minute. He needed to stand and get his bearings but life was surging forward at top speed like a river, and he was standing knee-deep trying to keep his balance in the current. He needed everything to stop. He didn't know how much more of this he could handle. No one would understand. He couldn't talk about it. What was his reason to stay alive if he would never accomplish anything other than mistakes?

There were only three months left of school, but Arthur set a date to test out of Sixth Form as soon as he got off of the airplane. The next week, his father drove him and his suitcase out of London and into the countryside.

Out of everyone who he spoke with, his grandfather was by far the most accepting and understanding. Arthur and his grandfather had never been particularly close, but during this time, Arthur was thankful for him. The old man was willing to provide asylum and help, and that was exactly what he did. He didn't push Arthur for information or details on what had happened. He found him a part time job at a local shop and allowed him freedom to do as he wished. When Arthur did finally come out to him and tell him exactly what happened between him and Alfred, he didn't expect to be comforted rather than admonished.

The old man promised him that it would get better. He promised that if there was anything that he could do to help, then he would do so. And at that moment, it was just what Arthur needed.

He didn't ever forget about Alfred. He thought about him all the time. But as time went on, he started to forgive himself. Was there really anything that he could have done? There were too many "what if"s involved to know for sure. But eventually, as spring wore into summer, Arthur realized that there was still a chance for him. Just because he had lost Alfred didn't mean that all was lost.

A few months rest was just what he needed. And, starting in September, he was ready to begin attending university as a full-time student. It was a chance to start over, to put the past behind him and begin with a clean slate.

Maybe this time he wouldn't give himself the reputation of someone whose only purpose was to make mistakes.

But maybe, that would be too much to ask.


	6. Chapter 6

_And we're back to the main storyline._

* * *

Arthur really wasn't an artist; that much was obvious after the very first meeting of his new art class. The instructor had already assigned two projects and it seemed that everyone else in the class already knew exactly what they were doing. It turned out that most of his classmates were planning on becoming art majors and were already perfectly adept at art; meanwhile, Arthur sat at his desk spending an unnecessary amount of time trying to remember whether or not the HB pencil was darker than the 6B. Things got even worse once he actually put pencil to paper.

Francis wasn't in class that Thursday. He didn't show up the Tuesday after that, either. Arthur had assumed that they would run into each other around campus since not many people took such early classes, but he didn't see him at all during the entire week.

He'd been worried about it at first. After he noticed Francis skipping out on the class, Arthur's free time had been spent glancing at the book with the gnawing worry that he would miss something if he didn't. But still nothing had appeared by the time the weekend arrived, and Arthur slid the book into a drawer of his desk and proceeded to attempt to put it out of his mind. He rarely checked for new words, just when he woke up and before he went to sleep. Even that seemed excessive. However, his grandfather had told him that it would be wise to pay close attention, and he had a point.

By the time class started without any sign of Francis the Thursday after that, however, Arthur packed up his things and left the classroom before they'd even had a chance to begin the lecture portion. He'd have time to work on his mediocre drawings later at home. Besides, he hadn't picked up the class to learn about art. Honestly, he'd picked it up just to save face. And right now, there didn't seem to be much point in attending.

It had been far too long since he'd heard from him. Arthur sent a message as he walked back to the car park: _Where've you been?_

The response was almost immediate: _You noticed. That's nice. _

_Of course I noticed, you dolt. We share a class and you haven't shown up all semester_, he replied back, frowning slightly at the message before he sent it.

The derision in the following message was almost audible. _Ah, has the professor finally stopped lecturing the whole time? In that case, it may actually be worth going to class. _

He pursed his lips. Francis really was the most infuriating person to message. _That doesn't answer my question. _

The response took longer this time. Arthur was almost at the car park before he received it. _I've been out. Please allow me to leave it at that. _

To be honest, Arthur didn't know what to make of the messages. What the hell was he supposed to assume? If Francis was just trying to be mysterious then that was an insufferable move on his part. But… What if he wasn't? What if there really was something keeping him from being up to going to classes? A problem at work, perhaps. Maybe he had to take on more hours to pay rent or tuition. Or it could simply be due to lack of motivation, for which Arthur couldn't bring himself to have much sympathy.

Whatever it was, Arthur couldn't help but hope that he'd be back soon. If he was going to figure out what was wrong in Francis's life and fix it before things got blown out of proportion, he'd actually have to see him sooner or later.

Arthur didn't receive another message from him until the following night. It was late on a Friday evening, and he was just preparing to begin work on his homework for the weekend as well as put some effort into his neglected drawings for art class.

But of course, fate had other plans. About ten minutes into his work, he nearly spilled his drink across the desk as he was startled by a loud noise from the other side of the wall.

"_Idiota_!" came a loud shout, barely muffled through the drywall. "That's the second one this week! I can't keep paying for all the damage you do, you know!"

Oh, that explained it. Ever since summer, Arthur had the misfortune of living next door to the Vargas brothers, two young men who shared the same appearances but were as different as night and day. And at the moment, it seemed as if the eldest was angry once again.

"I'm sorry, it was an accident!" came a higher voice. "I'll clean it up, I didn't mean–"

"I don't want your help, Feliciano," came the older man's voice again. "Get out of here."

"Lovi–"

"Feliciano, _leave_."

The air was heavily silent after the shouting ceased. Then, a few seconds later, there came the muffled sound of a slamming door.

Arthur sighed, standing up and stretching. He knew what would happen next. Every time his neighbors fought, the younger would knock on Arthur's door in pitiful tears and ask if he could stay the night. And Arthur could never say no. Feliciano often brought fruit or cakes for him from work and sometimes even joined him for afternoon coffee, and Arthur had to admit that he was quite fond of him.

And anyway, he would never end up staying for too long. The hotheaded older brother would calm down and knock on the door the next morning to apologize, and the younger would practically launch himself into his brother's arms. They'd say sorry to Arthur together for any inconvenience, and then Arthur would be left in peace for at least another few weeks until the next argument. It was all alright by him, to be honest. Their arguments never lasted very long and didn't have any lingering effects, for the most part. To say the least, it kept things interesting and he was glad for the company every so often.

Sure enough, the knock on the door came not a minute later. Arthur opened the door to receive the blubbering boy and wordlessly directed him over to the table. He picked up his mug of tea, which he had not had the chance to begin drinking yet, and set it before Feliciano. "What happened this time?" asked Arthur once Feliciano seemed to have calmed down a bit.

"I broke a plate again," he muttered, staring down into the mug.

"That's all?"

He paused. "I think fratello got in trouble at work today. He was upset when he came home."

"That's no reason to take it out on you, though. Especially if all that happened was that you broke a plate," responded Arthur. Lovino was nice enough most of the time. But whenever he was provoked, his sweet, absent-minded younger brother usually got the worst of it. Arthur knew that Feliciano loved his brother. Idolized him, even. So when something like this happened, Arthur wasn't quite sure what to do for him. "Are you hungry? Cold?"

"A little bit cold," he responded, not looking up.

Arthur noiselessly fetched him a blanket from the back of the couch and set it over his visitor's shoulders. "Are you going to be alright?"

Feliciano sniffed but gave a short nod, finally looking up at him. "Can I please stay the night?"

"Of course you may," he said, smiling a bit at the look of relief on Feliciano's face. "The couch is all yours. Stay as long as you'd like."

Feliciano began to nod off at the table not much later as the two of them chatted idly. Arthur coaxed him over to the couch and got him set up with a few extra pillows and a glass of water. A few minutes later, Feliciano was fast asleep.

Arthur found it a little sad, really. Feli would never to anything to purposefully hurt someone, yet he was so often in the wrong place at the wrong time. Arthur figured that he would go over and speak to Lovino personally about it if Feliciano hadn't begged him not to on more than one occasion.

An hour ticked by. Arthur sat at his desk working on an introductory assignment for his English class, content with the silence apart from Feliciano's steady breathing and the ticking of the clock above the mantle. Then, just as he was considering going to bed, the screen of his phone lit up.

A new message from Francis.

_Arthgur are yoiu there_

Arthur frowned down at the mistake-riddled text before responding: _I'm here_.

A few minutes passed before a similarly garbled message came in: _I mya need some help_

Arthur bit his lip. Francis didn't seem the kind of person to ask for help unless something truly unmanageable was happening. _What do you need? Where are you?_ he typed as he pulled the book from the top drawer of his desk, where it had lain relatively undisturbed for the past few days. A small amount of concentration brought a few lines of text, an address that more or less matched the one in the message that Francis sent not much later. That's not what concerned him, though.

No, what was worrisome was the fact that the entire placement of the lines in the book had shifted. And at the current moment, there were only a few blank lines between the last entry and the end of the book. For the first time in relation to anything about the book or Francis, he felt a pang of distress resonate within him at the realization of what this insinuated. It only lasted for a moment, however, before he stood with the intention of finding a way to the apartment of which he had the address. If he could get there quickly, perhaps he'd be able to talk with Francis for a little while and see what was going on, and hopefully put an end to whatever was happening.

He tossed the book into his bag and made for the door, but he stopped with his hand outstretched towards the doorknob. He had to do something about Feliciano. Arthur usually woke up with Feli in the bed beside him, having migrated from the couch at some point in the night. He should wake him up and tell him where he was going in case he got up in the middle of the night and was scared because Arthur wasn't there.

But then he was struck with a thought. If Francis truly was in trouble, there was no way that Arthur would be able to take him anywhere on his motorcycle. Didn't Feliciano own a car for his commute to work? He didn't want to bother him, but it was possible that Feliciano could help. Arthur promised himself that he would make it up to him later as he walked back over to the couch and shook his shoulder. "Sorry to wake you, Feli, but I need you to do me a huge favor," he explained as he shepherded Feliciano out the door before locking it behind them.

Feliciano didn't seem fully awake until they'd been on the road for a few minutes, but he listened carefully nonetheless as Arthur explained what was going on as best as he could.

What exactly _was_ going on? As Feliciano searched for the right streets, backtracking every so often, Arthur once more consulted the book in the dim light of passing streetlights. No amount of concentration would bring any more words to the page below the address. It was as if the book couldn't pick up on Francis at all. Arthur felt slightly sick.

The tension only grew with every moment of searching. The minutes dragged on; Arthur squinted his eyes shut and tried to take calming breaths, memories of the past threatening to rise once again. But Francis was going to be fine, right? There was no way that he'd let anything happen to himself. He seemed far too egocentric for that. But then again, the false smile which Francis had exhibited weeks before stuck in his mind; he was nonchalantly defensive, so much so that the ego had just seemed like a show after they left the hospital.

At this point, Arthur had no idea what to expect.

After what seemed like at least half an hour, Feliciano parked the car at the curb of a tall apartment building. Arthur jumped out of the car the moment it stopped moving, antsy after having been stuck inside for so long without being able to do anything other than wonder what sort of trouble Francis was in, and what he could be doing to help him if they could just find the damn building. After one last check of the room number, Arthur tossed the book back in the passenger's seat. He wouldn't need it for anything.

"I'll wait here," said Feliciano, yawning as he unbuckled his seatbelt and curled up in the front seat.

The building was old and smelled of dust and mildew. There were signs of water damage on the ceiling around the dimmed light fixtures in the entry hall. Spider webs adorned the ceiling corners, and the entire hallway was heavily, stiflingly silent.

A rickety elevator took him to the 8th floor of the building, the cables squeaking slightly with overuse. When the elevator finally arrived at the right floor with much whirring and rattling, Arthur could tell immediately that he was in the correct place. There was a hint of cigarette smoke and alcohol in the air, and the baseline of some unheard song rumbled through the walls. Arthur stepped out of the elevator, peering at the plaques beside the doors lining the narrow hallway. Most of the lights embedded in the ceiling were out of commission, some flickering and some refusing to light at all. It was hard to make out the numbers in the near-darkness, but he soon found the room that matched the number in both the book and the message which Francis had sent more than half an hour earlier.

The music became more defined as Arthur reached the door, which was already open just a crack. He knocked quietly before pushing the door open the rest of the way, knowing that it was unlikely that anyone would answer it. It was nearing 3 AM and whatever party had been going on was now completely wound down. Arthur had been to such parties – he hadn't enjoyed them – and knew that around this time, no one would care that there was one more person among them.

This room was just as dimly lit as the hallway outside. It was warm, and the air was smoky and stagnant. Discarded alcohol bottles lay on almost every surface; sleeping people lay on the couches, the floor, even on the coffee table beside the stereo system that was playing the slow reggae of which Arthur had heard the baseline in the hallway. No one he recognized. Someone sitting before the television in the living room waved absently in Arthur's general direction, a mixture of welcome and acknowledgement. He was the only one out of all of the people in the room who seemed to be moving, so Arthur guessed that he was his best bet.

"Excuse me," said Arthur, trying to keep his voice down as he made his way carefully towards the guy, making sure not to step on anyone. "Is Francis here?" he asked.

The man looked back at him, a blank look on his face. "Francis," he muttered. "Yeah, he was here. Might've gone home. Dunno."

"Do you know where I could find him in case he's still here?"

He frowned. "Huh?"

Arthur closed his eyes, attempting to keep himself from getting agitated. "If he were here, where would he be?"

The man shrugged. "Out back, maybe. That way." He gestured towards a darkened doorway at the other end of the room.

Arthur murmured a quick thank you, stepping around someone asleep on the floor as he made his way towards the doorway.

The shadowy doorway led to a kitchen that looked like it had seen better days. It seemed that it was kept in pristine condition at most times, but there were broken glasses and spilled drinks across the countertops after the night's events. Arthur passed through the room, pulling open a sliding glass door at the other end.

He was welcomed with a gust of cool breeze that was more than refreshing after the stifling warmth of the apartment. He was on a sort of iron terrace, a balcony overlooking the lit windows of apartment buildings and high rises in the distance. The view from this incredible height was magnificent, even in the dark. Arthur couldn't help but think about how nice the view of the sky must be at sunset.

As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he realized that he wasn't alone on the balcony. There was someone else leaning against the railing, someone with the burning ember of a cigarette just barely illuminating his face. His hair was pulled up in a haphazard ponytail, but there was no mistaking it.

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief with the recognition. He was alright for the time being. "Francis?" he said. "Are you alright?"

Francis didn't say anything right away, just kept looking out over the city as a bit of ash dropped from the end of his cigarette and fell towards the street far below. "Yes," he said, his voice a little strained. "_Je veux dire, non. Je ne sais pas_."

"Sit down for a minute," said Arthur, taking him by the wrist and leading him toward an iron patio chair. "Is there anything I can get you?"

Francis shook his head. He looked exhausted. Arthur could even tell that much in the darkness. There were dark circles under his eyes, which were unfocused as Arthur peered with concern at him.

"Hey," muttered Arthur, patting his face lightly in an attempt to make him focus. "Wake up. We're going home."

Francis shook his head again, chuckling slightly. "Right," he mumbled. "Home." He felt around the table beside him and picked up a little glass half-filled with clear liquid.

Arthur grabbed it from him before he had the chance to drink. "Hold on," he said, lifting it to his face. The acidic odor burned his nose immediately, and he moved the glass farther away from Francis with disgust. "No, you've had enough. You were already making typing mistakes when you messaged me half an hour ago, so I can't imagine… Hey," he said, shaking Francis's arm.

He was no longer paying attention, it seemed. His eyes were open, but he had leaned his head back against the backrest of his chair and was looking up at the sky above. "I'm tired of it, Arthur," he said after a moment, his syllables strung together as if they made one word.

Arthur sat up, looking across the table at Francis. "Tired of what?"

He took a moment to respond. "Everything, really."

Arthur didn't like where this was going. Before he could say anything, however, Francis was continuing.

"I can't see where any of this is going. It's going nowhere, and I can't fix this." He closed his eyes and gestured vaguely toward the railing of the balcony. "And even though I know I've made too many mistakes to count for anything, I couldn't jump." His hand fell limply to the table and he quieted.

Arthur sat in stunned silence once more. His grandfather had been right after all. In the back of his mind, he had been hoping that he was wrong. And yet here they were.

The last time that this had happened, that Arthur had been connected to someone dealing with whatever sort of hardship, it had ended in disaster. He had sworn to his grandfather that he wouldn't let anything like that happen again. But now, as he gazed across the table at the one sitting hardly three feet away, he had no idea of how to go about doing that. Al and Francis were two completely different people, after all. And he hadn't known what to do for Al either, other than just be there for him when he needed him. Could he do that for Francis, a near-stranger who he had only talked to on a few occasions?

All of this time that he spent sitting uselessly as Francis nodded off again was time wasted. He'd have time to ponder about this later when it wasn't so crucial to be alert.

When Arthur spoke next, he was taken aback by just how quiet his voice was. "Let's go, Francis," he muttered, wanting to leave as soon as possible. Or at least move Francis to somewhere safer than the balcony.

Navigating back out of the apartment proved to be a difficult task considering that he had Francis's arm over his shoulder and was supporting most of his weight. After the tedious elevator ride and the walk back out to the car, Arthur led Francis to the back seat and tapped on the front window to wake Feliciano, who had fallen asleep in the driver's seat.

"Is he okay?" asked Feliciano a few minutes later, peering into the back seat after he had regained enough consciousness to be fully aware of his surroundings.

"He'll be fine," said Arthur, flipping to the last entry of the book. "I hope, at least."

He breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the final page. Where there had earlier only been a few blank lines, there was now an entire page, front and back, separating the final entry from the leather-bound back cover.

They'd been on the road for a while, Arthur glancing in the mirror every once in a while at the man sprawled across the seats behind him. "I owe you for this, Feliciano," said Arthur.

"It's okay, I like helping out!" he said with a smile.

"I'll take you to lunch sometime to make it up, alright?"

"Ah, that sounds nice," said Feliciano, the happy smile still on his face despite how obviously exhausted he was.

Feliciano and Arthur supported Francis between them to get him into the house. It wasn't until they were inside the apartment that Feliciano asked the obvious question.

"Where's he going to stay?"

Arthur furrowed his brow. No matter how tired he himself was, Francis was in a worse state. "He can have my room. You keep the couch. I'll sleep on the floor."

Feliciano nodded agreeably, too tired to protest.

Francis grumbled slightly at them as they led him to Arthur's room, but was soon fast asleep as soon as he was situated in the bed with a new pillow and blankets.

Arthur took his own pillow and tossed it onto the ground beside the bed. He hadn't been able to get any of the work done that he had been toiling on before receiving Francis's message, and he couldn't stop himself from thinking about all of the work that he would have to make up over the weekend, despite the fact that there were more important things to think about.

He stared up at the ceiling as he reflected on the evening. Recently it was becoming more and more difficult to find time to have a quiet night in, and in reality it was quite a strain. It was alright to have Feliciano over, since he wasn't any trouble and usually made breakfast for the two of them the following morning, and he was always out of the apartment by noon. Arthur had the feeling that things would be different once Francis was added into the mix. He didn't know how exactly, but it was his best guess.

What would have happened if he hadn't messaged for help? And why had he messaged in the first place? Would he have gone through with it?

Those were questions for the morning, he decided. Hopefully Francis would be up to talk instead of keeping up his unreasonable façade. Answers were what would help Arthur find out what to do to help him. Because that was the goal of all of this, wasn't it?

Arthur didn't even know anymore.

The important thing was that everyone was safe. And as Arthur settled into his makeshift bed on the floor, he couldn't help but feel a sense of relief.


	7. Chapter 7

"Damn it," Arthur muttered to himself after waking up the following morning and reading the time on clock beside his bed. He had to stop himself from releasing a string of profanities as he realized that he'd overslept by a longshot. Stretching in order to free up a knot in his back that was most likely from sleeping on the ground, he stood up stiffly from his makeshift bed and looked around the room. Francis wasn't there; the bed was pristinely made and the room seemed a little tidier than Arthur remembered, but he was completely alone.

He wandered in the direction of the kitchen, a bit agitated by the scent of breakfast in the air. He'd wanted to be the first one awake. It was only right for a host to provide for his guests after all, even if it was just his neighbor and his… Francis. But maybe it was alright that Arthur had slept in. Feliciano always made breakfast every morning that he stayed with Arthur, and he was all too happy to let him do so.

But the man standing before the stove was nearly a foot taller than Arthur expected, and his hair was not auburn, but blonde. Everything about Francis betrayed exhaustion as he stood preparing breakfast over the stove, but at least he looked better than he had the previous day. His hair was pulled up in a messy ponytail once again, and he was wearing a set of clean clothes that Arthur recognized from his own closet. His vacant expression revealed that he was obviously wishing that he was still asleep, and it seemed to be a miracle that he was up at all.

"Nice clothes," Arthur said, taking a seat at one of the chairs at the kitchen table, keeping a close eye on Francis as he worked in _his kitchen_. "You've got great taste."

"They're horrendous," he responded, not turning away from the stove. "Looks like someone finally decided to wake up."

Arthur grumbled in response. "It's not that late."

"It's almost noon," Francis said. "I thought you said that you always wake up early, what happened to that?"

"I do, usually," Arthur said, checking his watch once more. "But it just so happens that I was out all night trying to chase down a certain drunk idiot."

If Francis was upset by his statement, he only showed it for a second. "Right. Coffee?"

"That'd be great."

After a few minutes, the two of them were seated at the kitchen table with coffee and breakfast before them. Francis hadn't said a word, and Arthur wasn't quite sure how to start up a conversation. Frankly, he didn't even know if conversation was worth it.

"Where's Feliciano?" he asked after a while, giving in to the stifling atmosphere.

"Left an hour or so ago," Francis said. "He's quite charming, really. Practically launched himself into some man's arms in the hallway."

"Lovino," Arthur said. "His brother. Thanks for dealing with them this morning, Feliciano gets kicked out every few weeks so this happens a lot."

Francis waved a hand. "Not to worry," he said. "Like I said, your friend Feliciano really is delightful."

"Sometimes, I guess." He decided it was better not to argue, even though he could most likely find evidence to contradict him. He doubted Francis cared wither way. But then, Arthur was struck with a thought. "Do you not have work today?"

Francis replaced his coffee mug on the table. "I called in sick."

"You don't look sick."

He let out a small chuckle. "Always quick to speak. Honestly I can't think straight and I could hardly get up to answer the door this morning."

"Go back to bed then," said Arthur into his coffee mug.

"No good," Francis responded, taking another sip of his drink. "Besides, I already put in my two weeks-notice a week or so ago. I'll add an extra day to that and it'll all be alright."

"You quit your job?"

"Not yet." His gaze fell to the table and he did nothing to change it. "In a week, though, I'll be free of both of them. I didn't see the point in going anymore."

Arthur was silent for a bit. "You were really going to jump, then."

"Did you think I was joking?" Francis asked, never raising his gaze from the table. "Did you think that I was just trying to have a laugh? It's not funny. I know you don't like me, but don't insult me in such a way." He took a deep breath. "I was going to."

"Why?"

"I had my reasons. Honestly."

Arthur knew that he should say something important, but all that he could muster was one word. "Like?"

"Constant patheticness?"

"You're not pathetic."

Francis laughed a little bit. "Maybe not to you."

Silence settled once again before Arthur prompted him to speak again. "What happened?"

Francis seemed to have given up on all attempts to look up. "You really want to know?" he asked. "Really?"

"Yes. I really do." Days before, Arthur had been frustrated to find that the book was completely useless in determining things such as reasons or motives, or anything that wasn't currently taking place for that matter; and of course, the problem still remained that it was still as short as it had been when Arthur had first come into possession of it. Although Francis was still breathing now, it would be foolish to assume that the danger was over.

"I really hope that you're not expecting something interesting. It's rather boring, honestly. Circumstances that are completely out of my hands getting me down. It isn't important."

"It doesn't have to be interesting to be important." Arthur honestly didn't care whether or not the story was "interesting" at this point. "Like History class. The most boring subject, but you'd be wrong to ignore it. It's all important."

A look of humiliation flitted across Francis's face. He replaced his coffee mug on the table before beginning to speak. "Uh, before I start, I want to say thank you. And also, please excuse my actions. I was an idiot."

Arthur paled. He'd never known how to accept thanks, as he felt undeserving of them ninety percent of the time. Now, however, with Francis sitting across the table from him with all defenses dropped, he knew that he had to say something. He couldn't blush and mumble his way out of this one. "It's fine," he muttered, looking away. "Just don't expect me to do this all the time. Now are you going to talk or not?"

Francis took a regretful breath before beginning to speak. "I guess first up is the generic money problem. I'm almost flat broke and I don't have the time to make any more money. I took out a loan for this year of college, but it wasn't enough because it costs so much to go to this university. I got a job at the beginning of this year but it wasn't enough, so I got another job, but…" He paused for a moment. "But now I don't have time for anything. After classes, I go straight to the café, and after that I go straight to the hostel. I get back to my apartment at around 4 AM every day and don't have time to do any of my schoolwork, so I failed most of my classes first semester. Then I go to class at around 8 AM and it repeats. That's my life every day. And even with both jobs, I don't make enough to stay in school. It's just too expensive."

"You didn't get a scholarship?"

Arthur realized immediately that he'd said something wrong. Francis's expression went dark for a moment before he continued. "No, I got one. It was a full-ride to Slade School of Fine Art." He stopped again, something of a cross between a smile and a grimace upon his face. "I got accepted there on an incredible art scholarship so I decided to go there, of course. I ended up renting an apartment here in London and setting up a studio… But a few months before the start of the semester, the scholarship was rescinded."

"Why did they take it away?"

"I think they found someone who was more talented than me," he said, swirling the coffee around in circles in his mug. "I just didn't make the cut. Even at my best I'm no better than mediocre. That's how it always is."

"You're better than mediocre."

"You hardly know me, Arthur."

"I know you well enough to know that."

"I doubt it."

"Francis," said Arthur, agitation creeping into his voice. "I'm worried. I know that you don't want to talk, but if that would help at all, then please let me listen."

Francis fell silent. "You are helping."

Arthur barely hid his relief before trying to progress the conversation out of the banter in which they always found themselves engaged. "Do you want to keep talking? What else is going on other than the problems with money and school?"

"The school problems keep going," he continued. "I decided to continue studying art, but what can I do with a major like that? I only went into this field because I got the scholarship. I could have actually done something with an art degree from a trade school like Slade. But now I'm locked into it, and what can I do with it after university? There's nothing. Even if I was any good at this, there wouldn't be any sort of profession that I could go into later on. But I can't do anything else. There's nothing else that I'm good at." For the first time in nearly five minutes, Francis looked up at Arthur. But when Arthur said nothing, he continued. "All that it comes down to is the fact that I'm a failure. I just can't seem to stop making mistakes."

He stopped again. "No one would care if I was gone. They'd hardly notice. I don't have any family. It's just me now. My friends would be better off without me anyway." He turned the coffee in his mug. "I'm insignificant."

Arthur said nothing. He knew it was Francis sitting across the table from him, but his mind saw Alfred sitting cross-legged in that chair, sweater hood up and sleeves pulled over his hands as he stared into his coffee mug and muttered profanities to himself under his breath. The untidy blonde hair, the haunted blue eyes, the sideways smile they each defaulted to even when nothing was particularly amusing, even the shirt that Francis had picked out of Arthur's closet was one that Alfred had liked to borrow whenever he put off doing laundry for too long and ran out of wearable clothing; too much was similar between the two.

Arthur never thought that he'd have to face anything like this after Alfred, and yet here he was talking over options with someone who obviously didn't think he had any reason to stick around much longer. It wasn't something that he wanted to do again. But this time, he reminded himself, maybe there was a chance that he could help. He just had to keep telling himself that. "You're not insignificant. No one is insignificant."

Francis chuckled under his breath. "It's been a long time since I've thought like that. You're always the optimist."

"I'm not," he said. "I just believe that everyone's here for a reason." He stopped, trying to figure out how to rephrase his point. "No, I _know_ that everyone's here for a reason."

"Aren't there exceptions to every rule?"

"Listen," Arthur said. "Just because you don't see where things are going right now, that doesn't mean that they're going nowhere. You can only connect the dots with hindsight. I promise." He hazarded a little smile at Francis.

Francis didn't respond right away. "It's good that you think like that. That attitude will help you if you ever find yourself in a situation."

Arthur felt his smile fade to be replaced with a glare. It seemed to him that at this point Francis was just trying to be difficult. He knew he was selfish for thinking like that, but Francis's constant pessimism was beginning to grate on him. Was that really what he thought of him? As much as Arthur was trying to be understanding, he had to put his foot down. "I've already found myself _in a situation_, as you put it," Arthur told him, trying to soften his glare. "And I can assure you that I bloody well didn't think like this for a second while it was happening. It's dangerous."

"Perhaps you're right," he clipped. For a while it seemed as if Francis wasn't going to continue, but there was just another period of silence before he kept talking once more. "I'm moving," he said suddenly.

"Moving?" Arthur repeated. "Why the hell are you moving?"

"I shouldn't even be in London in the first place," he said, a slight grimace upon his face. "I should have gone right back to Paris when Slade didn't work out." Francis glanced back up at Arthur. "Will you… Will you go with me?"

"Go with you?" Arthur repeated. He couldn't help but think about how loaded the question seemed. Besides, he wasn't one to enjoy travelling. Apart from his trip to America, he'd never been outside of the United Kingdom. And why would Francis ask him of all people to accompany him? "You mean help you move your things back to Paris?"

Francis's brow furrowed. "Well, that too."

_That too_. Arthur knew that he should be attempting to uncover the meaning within those words, but he was too preoccupied with the headache that was beginning to form behind his eyes. As much as he wanted to help, or at least knew that he should try, he still had school and work, not to mention midterm exams were coming within the following months. Although it was possible that he would be able to keep his university career on track while simultaneously helping Francis with his move, it was also unlikely. And who knew how long the trip was supposed to take?

"I can't," Arthur replied, dropping his gaze so that he didn't have to meet Francis's eye. "I have a life too, Francis, and it's one that I'm perfectly content with living just as it is right now." He put down his coffee mug and folded his arms across his chest, a feeling of shame coming over him in protest of his own selfishness. There had to be _something_ that he could do. "I can help you pack up a little bit, but there's no way I can go all the way to Paris. I'm sorry."

Francis's face fell. "Alright," he said, his voice a little softer than before. "I shouldn't have asked." He stood up, pushing his chair back away from the table and collecting his dishes.

"You leaving?"

"I should. I need to pack up. My train leaves tomorrow evening and I have much to do before then." He made his way into the kitchen and placed the dishes into the sink, then hurried back towards the front door. "It was nice to stay here. I appreciate it." He threw one last sideways grin over his shoulder before collecting his jacket and heading out the door.

Arthur stopped himself from calling out after him. He wanted to invite Francis to stay longer, to bring him another cup of coffee and offer assistance in more ways than just on the surface.

He slammed his coffee cup onto the table, some of the drink sloshing out over the coaster. Why had he declined to help him? Well, that wasn't entirely true. He'd agreed to help him pack up. But he'd refused almost immediately to the trip to Paris. If he was going to decline like that then he should have at least pretended to give it a little bit of thought. But did Francis really expect him to accept? It was a ridiculous proposal, even from a friend.

If Arthur could even call Francis his friend. He couldn't quite tell what Francis was to him, and it was borderline infuriating to think about. The two of them seemed to have a purely surface relationship – they had only seen each other a few times during school. But then why did Francis seem to trust him so much? He'd given him, a complete stranger at the time, a ride to the hospital at a moment's notice. And then, of course, there was the fiasco at the apartment complex the night before, when Francis had defaulted to calling him for help. And finally, he'd just spent the past ten minutes confiding his deepest thoughts to him. "Friends" didn't seem like the right word. But now, neither did "strangers."

Arthur pulled his phone from the drawer of his desk, considering sending a message to Francis that could potentially be seen as a half-hearted apology. He couldn't look like he was trying too hard if he was still not planning on giving in.

He clicked to the home screen, ignoring the notification that flashed across the screen – one missed call from Alfred's brother Matthew, which he would return later when it wasn't late at night in California – but stopped on the new message screen. Was it really that important to go to class? He could probably skip a few days and no one would notice. And even if they noticed, they wouldn't care.

It was worth a try.

* * *

For the third time that night, Arthur was unpacking his suitcase. He'd stumbled around the house for a while after Francis had left before being hit with a surge of inspiration which led him to pack a week's worth of clothes into a bag. An hour later, however, he'd had a change of heart and found himself putting everything away. After dinner he'd packed again, once more feeling a sense of duty to Francis after so rudely declining his invitation. But, once more, he'd thrown everything back into the dresser not half an hour later.

He called Matthew not long after that, once he knew that it was a time that he would be awake over in the United States. He needed advice, and he honestly didn't know where to get it. Calling Gilbert would only stress him out even more because all of his suggestions would either make no sense or be so truly impossible that they would be a waste of time even to listen to; that was, of course, provided that Arthur was even able to understand a single word that he said over the phone in his thick accent.

"Maybe you should just talk to him," Matthew had told him after listening to Arthur rant for a while. "It's only a suggestion," he'd continued after Arthur sternly assured him that he had indeed talked to Francis almost more than he could stand. "I'm just saying that it'll probably be easier to sort things out if you talk it over a little. It's a big commitment, but I'm sure you can do what you want and need to do."

After thanking him and hanging up, Arthur had mentally reminded himself to only go to Matthew for advice if he wanted nothing but ambiguous answers.

And here he was now, sitting on his bed surrounded by clothes and empty drawers with a half-filled suitcase open in front of him. It was nearing midnight and he knew that he was running out of time to make a decision.

He leaned back against his pillows and covered his face with his arms, thinking back to what Matthew had said. What did he want to do?

On one hand, he could hardly afford to miss school. Classes had been in session for only a few weeks, but they had already made their ways through all of the syllabi and introductory materials and were progressing through the courses at a normal rate. He had a test next week and online worksheets for two classes coming up. He would miss so much if he took needless time off. Maybe Francis didn't care about that, but Arthur did.

But was it really needless? He felt… something towards Francis that he wasn't familiar with. A sense of obligation or responsibility, perhaps. At least, that's what he attributed it to. He had to keep reminding himself that he was on a mission, and it was his job to make sure nothing bad happened this time around. It would not only be senseless, but _wrong_ to abandon him at this point.

He tossed another shirt into the suitcase and picked up his phone. His mind was made up. He went to Francis's cell number and composed a message. _Does your Paris offer still stand?_


	8. Chapter 8

It was an overwhelming relief to finally step off of the train after an exhausting three hours of travel. Things had begun to go wrong as soon as Arthur met with Francis, who was beyond ecstatic to have him as company, at his apartment that evening. They'd both been weighed down with two suitcases each, three for Francis filled to the brim with everything that he planned to bring with him to Paris. It had been enough of a hassle to fill out the excess baggage forms and take care of the nominal fee at the Eurostar kiosk. After that, they'd almost missed the train after taking incorrect instructions from a security officer. The process started to go more smoothly once they were comfortably situated in the cabin.

Halfway through the journey, however, the train had begun to slow before coming to a complete stop. The intercom had crackled into life, but the voice that came through into the cabin spoke in nothing but rapid French. Francis had gotten up to explain to the confused British passengers that the conductor had said that they were stopping for minor repairs and would be continuing shortly. Sure enough, the train started up not much later, and Arthur offered Francis a high five as he returned to his seat.

"Insignificant, my ass," Arthur had said, resting an open magazine over his face as he leaned back in his chair. They'd been underneath the channel for the past forty-five minutes and there was nothing to see out the window but darkness, and Arthur had long since bored himself with reading articles.

"That wasn't being significant, I was just helping out," Francis had responded, but that didn't stop him from wearing a little smile for some amount of time afterwards. Arthur decided not to comment.

So, after all of the difficulties in the process of getting to France, it was with a feeling of gratefulness that Arthur finally stepped out of the taxi in front of Francis's new apartment half an hour later than expected.

It was a bland-looking building that stood in stark contrast to the fancy structures that he had seen during the cab ride from the train station with their wrought iron gates, spectacular windows, and slightly out-of-place trellises leaned up against the masonry. The first floor was dominated by a quaint _boulangerie_ stocked with rolls and loaves of every kind, and the scent of fresh bread hung in the smoggy air. A narrow staircase beside the bakery provided access to the other floors of the four-story building.

"How are we going to get these upstairs?" asked Arthur, guarding the luggage as Francis paid the taxi driver.

Francis came over to stand beside him as the cab pulled away from the curb. He seemed to be about to say something, but a yell from nearby cut him off.

"Francis!" came a joyous shout from above them. In an open window on the third floor, a brown-haired man was frantically waving with the widest grin upon his face. He shouted something else that Arthur didn't understand before slamming the window shut and disappearing from view.

"That's how," said Francis, sporting a grin of his own as he took a suitcase in each hand and pulled them towards the stairway. Before he reached it, though, he was nearly knocked over as the man who had been shouting at them earlier made a hasty appearance once again.

"_Francis,_ _t'es arrivé_!" he shouted, launching himself into Francis's arms and hugging him tightly.

"_C'est magnifique de te voir encore, Antonio._" Francis pulled away from the brown-haired man after a few moments.

Antonio's grin never seemed to falter, even as he stood up on tip toe to quickly press his lips against Francis's. After a moment, Francis wrapped his arms around his waist and kissed him back.

Arthur didn't realize that he had taken a step back until he slipped off of the curb and nearly lost his balance in the street, knocking over a suitcase in the process. When he looked back up, Francis and Antonio were simply chatting once more. _What was that_? Arthur hadn't previously considered the fact that Francis might be seeing someone. Now that he thought about it, the idea wasn't unheard of.

A young woman with dirty blonde hair had joined the two and thrown her arms around Francis's neck in an immediate embrace. They continued to speak in an animated fashion, and Arthur couldn't help but feel a little left out as he attempted to pick out discernable words from their constant stream of French.

Francis turned to him as Arthur pulled the two suitcases towards the group. "Arthur, come meet my friends," he said, gesturing at them. "Antonio's the landlord here, and Emma is an old flatmate."

Antonio stuck out a hand and Arthur took it. "You're the landlord, then?" he asked in an attempt to make conversation.

A confused crease showed up on Antonio's forehead, though his smile never faltered. His gaze flicked over to Francis.

"Uh," came Francis's voice. "Antonio only speaks Spanish and French."

"Oh." Arthur looked away. "Sorry."

Francis relayed the quick message to Antonio, who laughed good-naturedly. Emma spoke briefly as well.

"They say they're fine talking through me, and that it's nice to meet you," Francis told him.

Arthur sighed, wondering why it had taken him this long to realize that he'd probably be stopped by the language barrier many more times during the span of this next week. "Alright, not a problem."

The four of them each took a bag and together they hauled them up the stairs to Francis's apartment. Antonio unlocked the door and they entered into the room, nearly empty aside from a bed, a bookcase, a table with a few chairs, and a kitchenette complete with miniature appliances. The other three immediately dropped the bags on the floor and took seats at the table, chatting the entire time.

Arthur stood back awkwardly behind them. He didn't want to barge into their conversation, what with their recent reunion after who knew how long they had gone without seeing each other. The three of them looked so happy, all smiling and holding hands as they sat around the table.

"Francis," muttered Arthur after a while, setting the bag on the floor and moving to stand closer to him.

Francis finished his sentence and turned to him. "You can sit if you want," he said, gesturing to the empty seat.

"It's alright, really. I don't want to interrupt." He cleared his throat a little, making sure not to meet the gazes of Emma or Antonio. "I was wondering if you could point me towards a currency trading station."

"Oh, right." Francis stood and moved over to the window, motioning for Arthur to follow. After some instructions dictated while pointing out the directions through the window, Arthur grabbed his wallet and made his way out into the street in front of the bakery.

It was strange being in such a different atmosphere than he was used to. Apart from his trip to America, he'd never been out of England. Everything about Paris was unique and interesting, and nothing like what he had ever seen before. They'd passed monuments that Arthur had only seen in books on the way to Francis's apartment, which was tucked back into a quiet district away from the noise of the inner city. Francis had pointed out the top of the Eiffel Tower in the distance from the cab, although most was hidden behind buildings and trees.

If anything, Francis seemed more than glad to be home. He seemed much more relaxed than usual as he spoke in his native tongue. If his enthusiasm about meeting up with his friends was anything to go by, he'd made the right choice in deciding to move. It was odd, though. He'd gotten somewhat used to Francis's presence. It was strange to think that after his week in Paris, he probably wouldn't have the chance to see him again.

But for now, he'd try to make an effort to enjoy himself. It was a sort of vacation, after all. And he didn't have to worry about paying for a hotel since Francis had insisted on staying together in his new home. He tried not to think about how much he was missing back in London. _Vacation_, he reminded himself once more.

He arrived back at the apartment half an hour later with a wallet full of more Euros than he had expected. The sun was just beginning to set and the streetlamps lining the lanes had long since flickered into light.

The door was propped open when he arrived back at the apartment. Hardly any light was cast upon the landing of the hallway, but soft voices were trailing from within the room. Arthur approached and knocked on the doorframe, and the two people sitting at the table jumped and looked up.

"Oh, Arthur," Francis said, switching back to English once more. "Antonio was just leaving. He brought some vegetables over, are you hungry for dinner?"

"Starved," Arthur responded, awkwardly returning the smile that Antonio directed at him.

Francis didn't seem to hear him, as he had turned his attention back to Antonio once more. He spoke a few words and Antonio laughed, standing and kissing him lightly on the cheek before turning and heading out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Francis sighed and stood to lug a heavy silver pot towards the tiny stove in the kitchenette before lighting one of the burners and filling the pot with water.

Arthur hardly knew what to bring up first. The city? The apartment? Perhaps Antonio? Maybe those were conversations for later. "What are we having for dinner?" he decided on finally.

"Pasta," he responded, sliding the pot of water onto the lit burner. "It's cheap and all that I could find on such short notice. We'll have a nice meal out sooner or later." He pulled a basket towards him with his foot and peered inside. "Antonio brought tomatoes, basil, onion, and garlic, so we should be able to make an adequate sauce." He looked up at Arthur, who hadn't moved from his spot beside the door. "Don't just stand there, help me chop these tomatoes."

The next half hour was spent preparing the meal. Arthur honestly would have been fine with just canned pasta sauce, but Francis only scoffed and muttered something unintelligible under his breath when he suggested as much. He'd never put this much effort into preparing a meal before. He was mainly just good at baking, so he never tried too hard to make actual dinner food from scratch. He was never trying to impress anyone, after all, and he found that all food tasted delicious when he was hungry enough. Getting up and just preparing a meal with someone was definitely new. Unnecessary maybe, but definitely not unenjoyable.

The meager meal was complete not long afterwards, and Arthur found himself seated at the table for the first time that evening. It had been occupied earlier by Francis and his friends, so he hadn't attempted to take a seat. He hadn't had the chance to sit down since he got out of the taxi earlier that evening, what with visiting the currency trading station and helping with dinner, so it was nice to take a break.

Arthur was hardly halfway through his first plate when Francis went back for seconds and began devouring it just as he had the first one.

"You're hungry today," Arthur mused, twirling another bite of pasta around his fork.

"Seems like it," responded Francis. "How was your walk?" he said quickly.

Arthur held up a hand to indicate that he would answer once he was done chewing, and Francis scoffed at him again.

"Honestly, Arthur, you don't have to be polite. There's no one to impress here." To emphasize his point, he took another bit before continuing. "You're a damn gentleman."

Arthur scowled at him and made a show of not answering until he was done. "My walk was _fine_, thank you."

"In love with this city yet?"

"Of course not, it smells bad," said Arthur, standing and tossing his paper plate into the trash. It wasn't entirely true, but he'd hardly seen any of the city apart from what they'd passed in the taxi. "I have to actually see the city before I form an impression about it."

Francis let out a small chuckle before tossing his empty plate into the trash can as well. "We'll go sightseeing tomorrow, how does that sound?"

"Sure," he said, pulling the heavy pot off of the stove and hauling it over to the sink.

"What are you doing?" asked Francis, who had seated himself back at the table and was flipping absently through his phone.

"Dishes," he called over his shoulder, collecting the knives, spoons, and cutting boards that they had used for cooking and dumping them into the basin sink as well. "You didn't make any indication that you were going to, and I'm not going to let things pile up as long as I'm here."

"Damn gentleman," Francis repeated, turning back to his phone.

Arthur huffed indignantly as the basin filled with warm water. "Honestly, it's going to be hard enough to unpack all of your things with a pile of rotting dishes all over the place," he said. "You don't happen to have a sponge or something, do you?"

Francis shook his head. "Best you go ask Emma. She'll probably have an extra that you can borrow."

"To bad I don't know 'sponge' in French," he said, rinsing the dishes under the stream of warm water.

Francis pushed his chair back and made a show of scuffing his feet as he made his way towards the door. "For future reference, it's _éponge_," he said, propping the door open before disappearing into the darkened hallway.

"Oh, _éponge_, I should have known," Arthur responded without trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, wondering if Francis was still in earshot.

A short laugh answered that. He returned not three minutes later and tossed a thin, yellow sponge at Arthur from the doorway. "She says we can keep it. You just won me a sponge."

"Oh joy," Arthur muttered as he stopped to pick up the sponge from where it had landed on the floor. "I sure hope you actually take care of cleaning up after I leave because I'm only staying for a week."

"You just arrived an hour ago and you're already talking about leaving," Francis mused. "Are you that keen to get rid of me?"

"You know that's not it," he grumbled. "I'm just sacrificing a lot of school time to be here right now and it hardly seems like you're working on unpacking at all."

"One hour," he said again. "It's only been one hour, I promise I'll work on it. Don't worry. You're going to have to work for your room and board."

"Some friend you are," Arthur said, a little more cautiously.

Francis hummed in agreement. "Only fair," he said, clicking his phone closed and tossing it onto the table in front of him.

Arthur completed his task in silence, overturning the silver on a dishtowel to dry after washing them. He was just finishing drying the utensils when Francis spoke up once more.

His voice was softer now, almost cautious. "Arthur?" he asked.

"Hm?"

"Who's Alfred?"

Arthur stopped cold, the spoon he had been drying clattering to the counter. "Who?" he asked weakly.

A pause. "Alfred," Francis repeated. "Jones? I think that was it. Alfred Jones."

Arthur picked up the spoon and aimlessly began drying it once more with the towel, despite the fact that it was already completely dry. How did Francis know that name? How much else did he know, and for how long? He'd tried to keep it covered up, but of course it was just his luck that his only friend other than Gil and the Vargas brothers had somehow found out. "How do you know that name?" he asked, setting the spoon and the dishtowel lightly back on the counter.

Arthur refused to turn around, refused to look at Francis, but he could still hear his voice echoed from every wall in the nearly bare room as he answered. "When I was having tea with your mother back at the hospital, she told me that I looked like someone named Alfred Jones. Someone who you knew. She wouldn't say more than that when I asked." He paused. "I figured he was someone important."

Arthur cleared his throat. "He was pretty important." Did he really want to tell Francis about him? He didn't want to lie to him, but he never found it imperative to tell people about what happened before he began attending university. But he hadn't recoiled when Arthur referred to him as a friend earlier. And, of course, Francis had confided everything there was to confide to him the day before. It seemed only fitting that he should provide something in return.

Before he could change his mind, Arthur pulled his phone out of his pocket and made his way towards the table. Although he didn't get cell service in France, he could still access his camera roll. He flipped through his sparse photos and back to those taken the previous spring. "This is Alfred," he said, selecting a photo and holding out the phone for Francis to see.

It was a photo taken in May of the previous year. It depicted Alfred and Arthur sitting side by side, Alfred grinning as he pressed a kiss to Arthur's cheek. Arthur was smiling as well, a rarity even during those few happy months. Thin trains of daisies encircled their heads, a product of one of Alfred's spontaneous internet research sessions and that he had insisted that they wear once he learned to make them. Their hands were clasped together with their fingers interlaced, and Arthur felt a pang of loneliness as he looked upon the photo. It was taken just a few weeks before Alfred was scheduled to fly back to the United States.

Francis's face softened. "Your boyfriend," he stated. "Why didn't you say so earlier?" He swiped the photo to the side, and the screen showed one of Alfred's ridiculous selfies. Another was soon to follow, and the one after that had Arthur in the background, blurry as he attempted to snatch the camera back from the enthusiastic American.

Arthur took the phone back from him and clicked it into lock mode. "Because it doesn't matter anymore." He pulled a chair back from the table and sat heavily, not looking up from the wood of the tabletop.

Francis didn't speak for a few moments. "You broke up?" he questioned. "In that case, I'm sorry for bringing–"

"We didn't break up," cut in Arthur. He couldn't stand having someone believe that he had purposefully left him. "Alfred died last summer."

There was complete silence for what seemed like minutes as Arthur's words hung heavily in the air. He didn't want to speak; there was nothing left to say.

"Oh," came Francis's voice. "I'm sorry," he said, his speech sounding forced. "What happened?"

"Francis, I don't want to talk about this," he said finally. He had gotten what he wanted to say out of the way, and he'd answered Francis's question. That was all that he was willing to do at the moment. "I made a mistake and demolished every chance we had, and I don't want to think about it."

"I understand," he said quickly. "I'm sorry I brought it up."

"It isn't a problem," he said, his voice still rough as he traced absent circles on the tabletop "I'm getting tired," he said not long after that. "I'll sleep on the floor, I guess." There was only one bed and he, as Francis's guest, hardly felt it was proper to dominate the room after having just arrived.

"Don't be like that," said Francis, slipping his phone into his pocket and standing. "It may be alright to sleep on the carpet back at your apartment, but all the floors here are hardwood and I hardly expect that would be comfortable. The bed's big enough for us both to have enough room."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Absolutely not," he responded. "Wouldn't that piss off Antonio?"

"Antonio?" Francis repeated with puzzlement apparent on his face. "Oh!" he said suddenly, his confusion clearing. "We're not together. Anymore, at least. He's just a friend."

"Bullshit," said Arthur.

"He is!"

"You kiss your friends?"

"Sometimes."

"Unbelievable." Arthur leaned back in his chair and covered his face with his arms. He couldn't decide if he was relieved or if that only worried him more.

"I'll keep my hands to myself if that's what you're worried about," Francis said over his shoulder on the way to the bathroom. A second later, the door closed behind him.

Arthur grumbled to himself, but retrieved his pajama pants from his suitcase and changed into them before Francis had the chance to return. He sat cautiously on the bed to test the springs. It didn't seem that uncomfortable, actually. And as much as he hated to admit it, the hardwood floor did look rather difficult to sleep on.

By the time Francis returned, Arthur was already huddled against the cold under the comforter of the bed. Wordlessly, Francis turned out the light and crawled in beside him.

Arthur knew that he should be more apprehensive about sharing a bed with someone. But at this point, he was so tired from travel that he hardly thought about it. He'd gotten up too early that morning and it was beginning to catch up to him. Without a second thought, he allowed himself to fall into the first truly comfortable sleep that he had experienced in months.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_I'm putting this story on a short hiatus. There are some pretty monstrous personal issues getting in the way of my writing, and as I am right now, I'm not fit to update on a predetermined schedule. _

_Thank you to everyone who offered encouragement last week, and thank you so much for your continued interest and support for this story. I don't know when it'll be updated but I promise not to abandon it here. _

_Thank you all, and until next time. _


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's Note:_

_..._

_Has it really been two months? I'm exceedingly sorry for that, and I promise I'll be back on schedule from here on out. I sincerely thank you all for not giving up on me. Thank you to whoever left the anonymous message that reminded me and kicked my ass back into gear in writing this. Without that, it probably would have been a couple more weeks. _

_Anyway, here's the next installment. I'm not going to lie, the next few chapters are more of a lighter reprieve from the main storyline. Goodness knows we need that. _

* * *

The next morning, Arthur awoke far earlier than he would have liked to gray skies and pouring rain. He'd hoped that the nice weather that had greeted them the day before would carry on throughout the week, but Francis assured him that the climate of Paris was just as finicky as that of London. "It's January, what did you expect?" he'd responded when Arthur voiced his dissatisfaction over breakfast.

When an hour passed with no indication that the rain was going to stop anytime soon, it became apparent that it wouldn't be possible to go sightseeing without being deterred by the less than desirable conditions. The rain was still pouring as hard as ever, sliding in sheets down the windowpanes with no signs of relenting. As much as Arthur found himself wanting to go out and explore this unknown city, he'd had his fill of rain during the winter months back in London and he was none too keen on the idea of traveling on foot during what was quickly becoming a storm.

As Arthur soon discovered, however, the alternative was no more desirable. Antonio and Emma both arrived at the door a few minutes apart from each other in response to Francis's call, but Francis left no time to chat. He immediately began working out a plan with the three of them relating to picking up the rest of his belongings.

He'd left some things with Antonio and Emma during his stay in London, but the rest of it needed to be picked up from a nearby storage unit. Not long afterwards, Francis and Antonio left in Antonio's tiny car to pick them up, and Arthur was left with Emma to transfer things from the other rooms in the building.

The work didn't take very long to complete since there wasn't much to move from the other two rooms to Francis's, and Arthur found himself alone with Emma as they waited for the other two to return. She was constantly smiling, but that didn't make the heavy silence that hung in the air any less stifling. Every few minutes there would be a slight interjection into the dense atmosphere: an unintelligible hand gesture, the sound of quiet static coming from a weak channel signal on the newly set-up television, and plenty of uncomfortable mumbling on Arthur's part in his half-hearted attempts to break the tension.

All he could do was sip his tea, listen to the false studio laughter coming from the television, and wait for Francis to return.

It wasn't long until he did. And when he finally arrived with Antonio and at least five additional boxes in tow, Arthur found himself longing for the calmness of the television's static. They were put to work at once, sorting through boxes of books, clothes, appliances, and shoeboxes full of assorted trifles. Arthur couldn't even begin to imagine why Francis had kept some of the seemingly worthless trinkets. When he held up a tiny pewter cat figurine, asked Francis why he had it, and got "I have no idea" as an answer, he realized that he wasn't the only one who was in the dark. Francis didn't know where some of these things had come from either.

The sorted piles across the apartment grew larger as they made their way through the storage unit belongings and the appliances they had brought down from Antonio and Emma's rooms. For hours they worked, the relentless rain never ceasing in its assault on the windows as the four of them continued their careful organization. The boxes were finally emptied after hours of effort, and if Arthur ignored the pile of unsorted appliances threatening to spill off of the kitchen table, he could pretend that they were nearly finished with the entire project.

He couldn't imagine that Francis would let him go to sleep that night until everything was in its rightful place, but he tried not to think about it too much as the four of them made their way to a local café for a break.

Arthur didn't expect much from the excursion. He'd only spoken a few sentences all morning, just talking when he had to ask Francis which pile to sort something into. The other three had been complete chatterboxes, talking and laughing and making a game of tossing things at each other from across the room. Arthur had tuned out the chatter to the best of his ability. After a while of being surrounded by incessant French, he'd learned to more or less ignore it. He mentally scolded himself for feeling left out; even if he did understand what they were saying, it was doubtful that he would actually join in on the conversation. Besides, he figured that one of them would call him over if he was wanted for anything.

Arthur sipped his coffee and gazed out the window of the little shop as the other three conversed across the table. Earlier in the day it had seemed that a storm was on its way, but the evening's downpour had subsided to a steady drizzle, and the sky had lost its darkly ominous color.

Francis nudged Arthur's shoulder after nearly half an hour of unintelligible conversation. "I didn't know you were capable of going such a long time without saying something brash," he said. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Fine," Arthur responded stonily, not looking up from the table where he had been attempting to balance a salt shaker on its corner for the past five minutes.

"Really, now."

Arthur let the salt shaker fall to the table after yet another unsuccessful attempt. "Honestly, if I wanted to be included in whatever conversation you're enjoying right now, I'd need a translation dictionary." He picked up the salt shaker once more and held it on its edge in another half-hearted attempt to balance it. "It's hardly worth it."

"Well if you _want_ to sit around and feel left out like a moping child, then–"

"I _don't _feel left out," Arthur said sharply, only realizing afterwards that he'd said it far too loud to be considered appropriate for the surrounding environment. "Besides," he said, lowering his voice in response to the disgruntled glances being cast towards their table by other patrons, "I don't want to talk to your friends, and I doubt they want to talk to me."

Francis opened his mouth to say something but seemed to decide against it. Without giving him any sort of response at all, he turned away from Arthur to speak once more with the other two.

Arthur spun the salt shaker absently on its side in small circles, having given up on trying to make it stand on its side. He watched as granules fell from the top and created a perfect circle around the container. It wasn't something that he would have chosen to spend his time doing but it was much more entertaining than focusing on being ignored would be.

He knew that he shouldn't have been so bitter about the whole thing. Francis hadn't seen his friends in over six months, of course, and it was obvious that they had missed him. Antonio and Emma were hanging onto his every word. It felt almost private, and Arthur debated excusing himself and taking a walk to give them more time together without him. Arthur knew that they were just putting up with him because he was Francis's guest, but even going out for coffee with the three of them made him feel like he was impeding on their hospitality.

"Arthur?" came a voice from across the table.

Arthur looked up from his salt circle to meet Emma's eyes. She glanced over at Francis and relayed a sentence or two to him.

Francis smiled back at her before turning back to Arthur. "She says that you're not interrupting anything, and that she wishes that there was an easier way to talk with you."

"Why does she say that?"

Francis tipped the salt shaker back into its upright position and brushed the circle of salt off of the tabletop. "I told them what you said a little while ago. For the record, Antonio agrees with her."

Arthur clenched his fists beneath the table. If he was looking for inclusion, this would most likely be the closest that he would get to it. But Francis deserved better; after all, this was only his second day back in Paris with his friends that he hadn't seen in so long. Even if Antonio and Emma were alright with Arthur tagging along, it wasn't fair for Francis to have to take on the responsibility of serving as a liaison between them when he should be focusing on enjoying his time at home.

Besides, Arthur would feel far less lonely if he was off by himself rather than in a group of people that made him into a third wheel without even trying, whether it was on purpose or by accident.

"If you're offering pity, I don't want it," Arthur said, keeping his voice quiet and even. "I can take care of myself." He stood and brushed the remaining salt off of his jacket. "I'm going back to the apartment. I'll stay out of the way for a while, so don't worry." He tried to remind himself that it wouldn't be any loss to them. They'd be better off without him anyway.

Arthur was hardly out the door when he felt the hand clasp around his. He stopped, ready to argue, but the grip was relinquished almost as quickly as it came. "If that's how you're going to be then there's no point in stopping you," came Francis's voice from behind him. "I'll be back in an hour or so. Will that give you enough time to stop your child-act?"

Arthur gritted his teeth, clenching his fist around the cold piece of metal that Francis had passed over to him. He wanted to turn and shout something at him, but forced himself to refrain from looking back as he walked away from the café.

It wasn't until he rounded the corner and was out of sight of the café's doorway that he looked down to examine the metal object in his palm. The flat edge of the silver apartment key reflected what little light it could from the overcast sky, darkening as Arthur passed under overhangs in an attempt to keep out of the rain. Of course he would have needed the key. It wasn't like Francis had given him an extra or anything. They'd expected to more or less stick together during Arthur's week in the city so it had hardly seemed necessary. Funny how that turned out.

The room was just as they had left it with piles strewn across every surface. It looked to Arthur that it would be too much work to move the piles from the bed, so he cleared a little place on the kitchen counter where he could sit and look out the window. The sky was beginning to darken once again, this time with the approaching night rather than clouds as lights clicked on all throughout the city. Visibility was low through the continuous drizzle, and the undersides of the heavy clouds were lit orange by the numerous lights below. How had it gotten so late already?

Arthur sighed, leaning against a cupboard and closing his eyes as he thought about what happened at the café. He'd been bored, for one. There was only so much entertainment to be gained from spinning a salt shaker. He kept telling himself that he was fine with not being included since that would just result in extra work for everyone involved, but it was hard to sit silently at a table with three other people who were chatting happily for hours on end as they went on blissfully in their unassuming safety bubble of each other's company.

That's what it was. At the café earlier, there had been that constant feeling of intrusion. As if he wasn't supposed to be there, or like he was seeing something that he shouldn't be. It was too much to ask to be included, especially when these three had been friends for so long and had been separated until recently.

And they may have been separated for longer, Arthur reminded himself. Indefinitely, really, when he thought back to Francis's previous situation. Spending time with those two probably meant more to him than Arthur realized. Had Francis told them about any of it? About why he was home to stay now in the first place? How the reason that he and Arthur were friends now was because Francis didn't have it in him to keep himself alive mere weeks before? Of course he hadn't told them. They wouldn't be chatting so happily together if they knew. That was probably the reason that Francis had stayed quiet. He didn't want anything to intrude upon his time with the friends he never expected to see again.

That thought alone was enough to replace Arthur's bitterness with guilt.

A little voice in the back of his head reminded him that Francis had offered to include him. So had Antonio and Emma both, for that matter.

They had. But there was no way that their politeness wasn't two-faced. It always was. They wouldn't want to talk to him anyway. They had Francis and he was enough. Arthur knew that he himself was dull as a rock. He lived a quiet life and hardly bothered anyone for anything as much as he could help it. Since he'd never made any attempt to speak with anyone aside from the Vargas brothers and Gil from Germany until Francis came along, he figured that he had dug his own grave in this matter.

He rested his head against the cabinet and turned his gaze up to the cracked ceiling. He knew that he'd done the right thing in excusing himself, but something felt off.

Francis was sure to be upset with him upon return. Maybe he should make an effort to remedy that, or at least to soften the inevitable blow.

He slid off the counter and to his feet, stretching as he made his way around the heaps on the floor. There was one pile in particular that looked simple to start with; it was full of clean clothes waiting to be folded and sorted into the chest of drawers, and it seemed to be an easy enough task. Arthur didn't necessarily want to start with the sorting of the numerous belongings yet, but procrastination would get them nowhere. It made sense to start sooner rather than later since they were going to have to work on it eventually, and he felt strange enough about earlier that he wanted to try and do something to fix it, and this was the only thing that he could think of that would help.

Really, he should work on thinking things through before he carried them out. He usually planned carefully for everything, but he'd only been thinking about his own boredom and how much he was impeding on Francis's evening at the time. And now he was stuck here, too stubborn to turn back, but regretting his decision to storm out like a child having a tantrum instead of sitting quietly and not making any trouble.

Francis had said that he wouldn't be back for nearly an hour, but Arthur had only been folding clothes and sorting them into drawers for ten minutes before he heard the door to the apartment click open.

Arthur only paused for a moment, but didn't turn around. "You're back early," he said as he folded up a long-sleeved shirt and tossed it into the drawer.

It was a few moments before he received an answer. "We ran out of things to talk about," came Francis's voice.

Arthur couldn't tell from his voice what he was thinking. There wasn't any anger there, that was for sure. Arthur felt himself relax a little at that. Normally, he wouldn't worry too much about having someone be cross with him. But when there was the chance that Francis was upset, Arthur couldn't push it from his mind.

"What are you doing?" asked Francis. Yes, his voice was devoid of anger, but the unnatural curtness of his sentences was worrying.

"I thought I'd get started with the cleaning," he muttered. "Thought it would be good to get a head start before you got back. I didn't know you'd be here so early."

There was a lull in the conversation as Francis leaned his bag against the table and perused the piles. "Thanks for that." He joined Arthur beside the bed and picked up a shirt. "It looks like we should be finished before it gets too late." He tossed it back on the pile, seeming to change his mind, and backtracked towards the table.

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes as Francis filled his arms with books and hauled them over to the nearby bookcase. Two shelves were completely filled before Francis spoke once more.

"What was that all about?"

Arthur looked up. Francis's expression had hardly changed at all; he didn't look over at him, instead continuing to sort the books onto the shelves in a seemingly-indefinite order. "I already told you, I'm done intruding," Arthur said, not bothering anymore to keep his voice at a hearable level.

"And I already told _you_ that it's not a problem."

Arthur flung a shirt at the dresser with more force than was necessary. "That's not fair, though." Although he told himself that he was saying this for Francis's benefit, a part of him recognized his true intention. "You deserve to spend as much time with them as you want. I'd only get in the way, what with the whole language barrier thing." Arthur felt his face begin to heat and turned away from Francis to hide his likely pink cheeks, trying to shut out the selfish part of him that wanted Francis to assure him that he was wanted. This was a horrible time to act on these feelings of loneliness and he knew that.

He turned his head slightly to gaze over to where Francis stood, and was startled to see that his blank stare was replaced with a look of stony displeasure. "You really _are_ like a little kid, Arthur," he muttered. He'd run out of books to sort but made no indication that he was going to get more, instead staring into the empty shelves as if searching for an answer between the wooden planks. "For the last time, those two were sincere when they invited you to join us. And frankly, I'm astounded that you think so low of them that you'd believe that they're just pretending to care. Are those the kind of people you think they are?"

"That's not what I meant," Arthur replied, the accusations striking him like knives. He didn't dare look at Francis for fear of betraying the hurt that he knew was reflected in his eyes. "I'm just saying that there isn't a reason for me to be there, and I understand that. They–"

Arthur stopped as he felt a weight against him and staggered backwards a step. It took him a moment to gain his bearings and understand what the weight meant. He felt arms tightly grasped around his waist at the small of his back. By the time that Arthur comprehended the situation, Francis had begun to speak.

"Shut up, Arthur," he muttered into Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur yelped in surprise, attempting to take another step back with no avail. "Francis?" he half-shouted, reaching around to where Francis's arms were locked behind him. "What are you doing?!"

Francis didn't respond, just pulled away in the slightest to hold him in a weak, somewhat more distant embrace. Arthur didn't move, didn't breathe as he stared back at him with wide eyes. An unseen clock ticked in a nearby pile, and what must have been nearly twenty ticks sounded before Arthur felt his mind return once more. He didn't realize that his own arms were around Francis's shoulders until he pulled them back to his sides. He must have moved them unconsciously upon realization that the contact wasn't a threat.

"Francis," he muttered, averting his gaze. If his face had felt warm earlier, there was no telling how red it was now. "You can let go now. I'm not going anywhere."

Francis took a step back at that, then turned a moment later to fill his arms with another load of books. "Right," he said, making his way over to the bookcase as if nothing had happened. "Let's finish sorting out the rest of these before we go to sleep. The weather report said that tomorrow will be clear, and I don't want to spend the day indoors if it is."

Arthur didn't answer immediately. He still stood where he had been for the last few minutes, slightly stunned. "Alright," he said as he picked up another shirt from the bed. He paused for a moment, running his hands over the soft fabric as he gave himself another second to clear his mind.

A quick look around the room told him that even though they'd already started with the sorting, completing the task wouldn't be easy. With a sigh, he gazed down at the nearly-finished pile in front of him, wishing desperately for something to take his mind off of the boring task and dwelling on his own stupidity from earlier.

But of course, no such luck.

With a frown, he began to fold the shirt. He could only hope that this wouldn't take as long as it looked like it would.

* * *

Arthur grumbled as he pulled another blanket up to his chin. The room was freezing, and there was little that he could do about it other than pile more blankets onto the bed. Now he was nestled beneath at least four covers but the biting chill still found its way to his skin.

It was nearly midnight; the cleaning and organizing was completed, despite the fact that half of the piles had been arranged into the empty boxes and shoved unceremoniously under the bed. It seemed to please Francis though, so Arthur didn't argue about the lack of clear organization.

Arthur grabbed a pillow and shoved it over his head to block out the light of Francis's laptop. No matter how tired he was following a day of work after waking up too early, it would be impossible to sleep with the glaring white light emitted from the screen lighting up the walls of the room.

"Stop your fussing," came Francis's voice, although Arthur couldn't see him with the pillow blocking his view.

Arthur pulled the pillow away from his face with a scowl. "It's freezing," he clipped, making a show of pulling the blankets more tightly around him.

"Then put on a jacket." Francis hardly bothered looking away from the screen, instead continuing to type into whatever document he had been working on for the past ten minutes.

"But then I'll wake up in the middle of the night and be too warm," he mumbled. "And are you ever going to turn off your computer? Can it really not wait until morning?"

"It can't, actually," he said, his face pulling into a slight grimace.

Arthur sat up, leaning onto Francis's shoulder in an attempt to catch a glimpse of what he was writing. "What is it?" he asked, blinking against the full-on light of the screen.

"Emails to my ex-employers." He stopped typing and brought a hand up to his face, seeming to rest his eyes against the strain of the bright light. "I put in my two weeks' notice a while back but I ended up leaving before the time was up. I'm pretty familiar with the guy who runs the coffee shop, so he'll be alright with me leaving early. My employer at the hostel, though..." He trailed off. "That might be a little difficult to talk my way out of."

Arthur sank back against the pillows. "Why didn't you stay until the end of the two weeks?" he asked.

Francis positioned his hands over the keyboard once more. "I wasn't thinking clearly," he muttered as he began to type again. "As soon as I woke up at your house the other day, I borrowed Feliciano's laptop and booked my train ticket back to Paris." He paused, re-reading through what he had written before highlighting the last paragraph and deleting it altogether. "Didn't think I could handle any more time in London after... Well, after all of that." He was typing again, his keystrokes heavier than they had been just moments before. "I was sick and hungover and upset, and I made a dumb choice and couldn't afford to rebook the ticket." The paragraph that he had deleted was replaced with a few sparse lines, and Francis re-read them a few times before erasing those as well.

"You didn't seem hungover and upset," Arthur told him, rolling onto his side to face the window rather than having to shield his eyes from the light.

Francis let out a fervent chuckle as he continued to type. "After all these years, I've learned to hide it." The paragraph that he had just written was even more sparse than the one that he had just deleted, but he seemed satisfied. He hit the enter key a few times before typing his name at the bottom and hitting "send".

"You say 'all these years' like an old man," Arthur said, sure that his voice was muffled but not caring enough to move. He'd finally found a warm spot and didn't want to give it up for something as trivial as clarity. "How old are you, even? You never actually told me."

Francis powered down the laptop and closed it, throwing the room into darkness at last. "Twenty-two," he said, getting up to put away the computer.  
If Arthur had said that he wasn't surprised, he would have been lying. He guessed that it made sense that Francis was older than him, but it was strange to think that the two of them weren't roughly even in their years. He tried to think of something to say but found himself pulling a blank; his brain decided on a simple "oh" to fill the silence.

Arthur heard the sound of a chair skidding against the floorboards, followed by a loud clattering and what sounded like a curse that he didn't understand. After a bit of mumbling, there came the sound of the rubber patches on the bottom of the computer meeting the polished boards of the table.

Francis stumbled in the darkness on the way back before falling heavily beside Arthur. "You sound disappointed," he noted, pulling the blankets over himself.

"I just assumed that you and I were about the same age," said Arthur, rolling onto his back to look up at the square of light from the space between the curtains on the window that illuminated a patch of the dark ceiling.

"Are we not?"

"I'm turning twenty in a few months," he muttered.

"Hm," responded Francis in a similar fashion. "Well, I didn't do anything immediately after high school other than get a job and abandon all other responsibility for four years. That might explain it."

"Right. I guess it does."

"Does that change anything?"

Arthur thought for a moment. Did it change anything? He didn't see why it would matter, to be honest. But something about this realization made things feel a little off. He didn't know how to describe it. "It doesn't change anything," he decided, turning over on his side to face away from Francis once more.

"That's good."

Silence.

Despite the fact that he'd been so tired just minutes before, Arthur couldn't feel more awake now. There were a multitude of thoughts running through his head but he could hardly dwell on one for more than a few seconds before another took its place.

Though he'd seemed so at ease earlier that day, it was clear that Francis's troubles weren't over. He obviously still had a lot on his mind. Arthur couldn't help but wonder if that was healthy.

The small gap between the curtains on the window that let a strip of light filter through the room now seemed as bright as the laptop screen had been. The building across the alley was alight with lamps that cast an orange glow into the street, and Arthur could see that the overcast sky was still tinged with the reflection of lights below. There wasn't much difference between London and Paris in that sense. The cities, much like their detached inhabitants, never seemed to sleep.

"Are you awake?" Arthur asked after a few minutes of quiet.

"I'm awake."

Arthur let silence fall over them once more before he spoke again. "I'm sure this whole employer business will turn out fine."

Quiet once more, other than the faint hints of their breathing and the occasional sound of a moped passing in the hushed street below.

"Thanks."

Arthur turned his gaze back to the window. For once, the silence was a peaceful, unassuming, unadulterated calm.

It was a nice change.


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's Note: _

_Hello, I'm changing the updating format of this fic so please keep reading the Author's Note if you'd like to know. Otherwise, please continue onto the story. You won't miss anything major by skipping this A/N. _

_I'm going to try to make updates more frequent so that I'll be able to finish writing most of this before I go back to college. From here on out, though, the chapters may be a bit shorter (two or three thousand words rather than my usual four or five thousand). I hope to wrap this up in sixteen chapters total, because there's still a lot that needs to happen but I'm trying to finish this quickly before I have to balance writing, school, and work starting later this month. Now I'll be devoting all of my time and effort to writing this, so expect to see them more often! _

_Updates may not necessarily be on Fridays anymore. Now I'll just be posting chapters as soon as they're finished, so they may take anywhere from three days to a week. Thanks for bearing with me! _

* * *

"I brought your dumb bread. Get up, you lazy ass."

Francis grumbled and rolled over, clamping a pillow over his ears.

When Arthur had gotten up to start coffee at nearly seven that morning, Francis had hardly budged. He hadn't made any indication that he was going to move at all until an hour later when he called Arthur over, told him to go get breakfast from a nearby bakery, and rolled over once more. By the time Arthur retuned, having traveled across the neighborhood and bought two loaves of bread, Francis still hadn't moved a muscle. Arthur was reminded of how Francis had confided that he wasn't a morning person during their first coffee date a few weeks earlier. That was obvious now.

It must feel strange to be able to sleep in so much after having to get up early for school and work for such a long time, like waking up each morning during the first week of summer holiday and easing into the peculiarity of a lack of responsibility. Arthur wondered what Francis would do with his time now that he had no classes or jobs to fill his schedule.

Arthur threw the curtains back from the window to fill the room with the brightness of the brilliantly clear sky. He knew that the air outside was thin and cold, but he couldn't deny that the city looked lovely under the blue sky – as long as he was able to view it from the slightly-warmer apartment, that is.

"Wake up," Arthur repeated, pulling the curtains back from the next window as well. "And I know you're awake, so don't pretend that you're not."

"Bread first," came Francis's muffled voice.

"A compromise, interesting," replied Arthur. More than anything, he was relieved that Francis was finally showing signs of movement at long last. Satisfied that the room was sufficiently lit, he made his way over to the table where the loaves of bread lay beside the laptop. "Butter or jam?"

"Just bread," came the muffled answer.

Arthur cut a slice from one of the loaves and tossed it at him.

Francis sat up with a scowl. "What was that for?" He mumbled, picking up the bread and taking a disgruntled bite.

"For laying around like a slug." Arthur set a cup of black coffee on the bedside table beside Francis. "And you're the kind of person who can't walk a straight line without a cup of coffee first, right?"

"Rude." He dropped the bread on the table and reached for the coffee mug. "You're my guest, and this is how you treat me," he mused, only half-serious.

Arthur let out a snort of laughter before taking a seat at the table and cutting a slice of bread for himself. "I dunno, I'd say having your breakfast delivered right to you is a pretty good deal."

"Not when it's thrown at the side of your head." Francis stood, dragging the biggest blanket he could find towards the table with him like a cape as he tried to balance his breakfast in one hand.

And such was the start of their morning. All of the awkwardness of the previous day was as good as forgotten as they chatted over breakfast, Francis having returned to his normal self after a cup of coffee. Arthur's enthusiasm about the clear weather led Francis to list off the ideas he had for the day: he wanted to go to mass at Cathédrale Notre Dame and stop by the outdoor market on the way home for ingredients for dinner, but the schedule allowed time to wander and do as they pleased.

So, after finishing breakfast and squabbling about where to go first, they made their way to the nearby metro station to catch a train to the inner city.

They were still quarreling over whether or not the Paris Metro was more efficient than the London Underground when they stepped onto the platform at a station near Île de la Cité. Francis was having none of Arthur's insistence that the Tube was much cleaner and more punctual.

"It doesn't matter how clean it is if you end up ten kilometers from where you're trying to go," Francis argued, shepherding him up the stairs at the end of the platform. "There are, what, ten different routes? Fifteen? And good luck getting on the right line."

"It's simple if you have at least a smidge of directional sense," Arthur quipped. "Damnit, it's freezing!" he shouted as they reached the top of the stairs and were hit with a gust of frigid air.

"Language, Arthur, there are children about," Francis said before pulling his scarf up over his nose and sticking his hands in his pockets.

"Little French kids who don't know what the hell I'm saying," he grumbled, zipping up the jacket that Francis had lent him earlier that morning. Two degrees Celsius had sounded warmer than this while he was checking the Paris weather report online and deciding what to pack a few days earlier. He'd been under the impression that he'd be getting away from London's dreary skies with this vacation, but he ended up woefully unprepared and thankful that he and Francis wore roughly the same sized jackets.

"You'd be surprised, actually." Francis freed one hand from his pocket and pointed to the right. "This way to the bridge," he announced, shoving his hand back into his pocket and leading the way.

The air was thin and frigid and Arthur couldn't stop himself from shivering as he trailed behind. Although he enjoyed arguing for the sake of arguing, especially with Francis, he wasn't actually all that put out about the weather, or the metro, or anything for that matter. He was, more than anything, excited to finally be out and about to explore the city after two days of settling in.

They turned a corner and made their way through a narrow alley that opened onto a bustling street, then crossed over to a white bridge that stood pristinely over the Seine. The sidewalk to the right of the bridge was crowded with pedestrians, and Arthur grabbed hold of the hood of Francis's jacket to avoid being separated as they crossed over the murky river.

Then, as they reached the other side of the bridge and arrived at the island, Cathédrale Notre Dame stood tall and regal before them, looking just like Arthur had seen on the cheesy postcards that adorned his own family's refrigerator - Al had taken a weekend trip to Paris during his stay in England, and Arthur had found postcards and pictures hidden in his room for weeks afterwards.

It looked even bigger in person, with its twin steeples and magnificent sculptures above the grandiose doorways. The cold stone of the cathedral shone bright with the light of early morning, the stained glass windows reflecting a sort of faint glow onto the ground below.

All around them, people were hurrying towards the gigantic doors in preparation for the service that was to begin any minute now. The sweet scent of vanilla hung in the air, likely trailing from beneath the umbrella of a nearby crêpe stand, it's vendor at work spinning crêpe batter across a large, round skillet as a customer waited, speaking rapidly into the receiver of a cell phone. Unseen birds chirped despite the cold from within the branches of trees that lined the paths at the sides of the building. As the two of them stood, the cathedral bells began to ring out the start of mass.

"It's been a while," said Francis, smiling as they stood before the towering church. "Come on, the priest won't like it if we walk in late."

* * *

"I didn't know you were a church-goer," Arthur said after the service.

It was nearing noon and they were behind the cathedral, strolling beneath the trees of a small, geometric grove beneath the church's gothic-era spires. Arthur had treated them to overpriced crêpes from the vendor near the cathedral for a lunch light enough to leave them hungry for dinner, which Francis was hinting at being a big deal.

"Not exactly," Francis responded after another bite of sugar and lemon crêpe. "I'm more of a Christmas Eve and Easter person, though I skipped this December. Or whenever have some time on my hands – which, up until now, hasn't been too often."

"Same here," Arthur admitted. "My parents always made me go with them when I was a kid, but I stopped when I went into sixth form. Alfred went to mass once and hated it because he didn't like sitting still for that long. He managed to convince my parents that we had homework every single weekend afterwards." Arthur laughed a little before continuing. "Pretty soon they just stopped inviting us, and I haven't been since."

"That's a shame," he responded, crumpling up the empty crêpe wrapper and putting it in his pocket. "You're always welcome to visit this Easter, if you'd like. There's usually a nice service at Cathédrale Sacré Cœur over in Montmartre."

Arthur finished up the last bite of his cinnamon crêpe and folded the paper neatly before slipping it into his pocket. "I might take you up on that," he said, stretching with a yawn. "Even though it's hard to sit through such a long service. I've never really liked going to church."

"Yeah, you spent half the time ogling at the stained glass," said Francis, turning and beginning to walk around to the front of the cathedral.

"It was very nice to look at," Arthur said in his defense. "It's practically a national monument. And you seem to be forgetting that I don't actually understand French. Did you expect me to pay attention the whole time?"

Francis shrugged, not bothering to slow down.

Arthur hurried along behind him. "Are we headed to the market now?" he asked. He was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers from the biting cold, so he couldn't help but be glad that they were finally moving at a brisker pace.

"We'll get there soon enough," said Francis. "I want to show you something on the way, though. Have you heard of the Pont des Arts?"

"Doesn't ring a bell," he responded, resorting back to shoving his hands in his pockets in hopes of finding some warmth within the fabric.

"You'll know it when you see it," Francis assured him before leading the way to a bridge on the opposite side of the church than where they had arrived at the island.

They passed a vast hospital, and then, after reaching the bank of the Seine, they passed another that was even more expansive than the first. They were large buildings, obviously old as well, but not poorly-maintained. Much like the rest of the buildings in Paris, the hospitals were regal and stood tall along the banks of the murky river, proud assurances that their patients were in good – and, of course, competent – hands.

After a short walk on the street beside the bank of the river, Francis took Arthur by the sleeve of his jacket and directed him towards yet another bridge.  
Arthur almost asked why they went in such a roundabout way instead of crossing back the way they had come, but he was stopped by the realization that he recognized the bridge on which they were standing.

It was a pedestrian bridge hardly more than ten meters across, and the chain link fences beneath the railings were covered with what were unmistakably metal locks, like the ones found on lockers in the schoolyard or bikes chained up in the city.

"Love locks?" Arthur asked, turning one in his hand and seeing "Emmanuel + Alina, 2007" engraved on the back.

"Sorry for the indirect way back to the metro station," said Francis, beginning to walk ahead. "I like to pass through here when I have the chance. It's been a while."

Arthur jogged to catch up with him. "Al's told me about this bridge, but I didn't think it'd be this big," he said. "Don't they worry about the bridge collapsing under the weight?"

"Not particularly," he responded. "Anyway, there's not much to do here if you don't want to read the locks, but I guess it's a place to say you've been."

"They're interesting to read though," said Arthur, stopping for a moment to glance at one of the locks. "Look, Emilie and Ana, 2011. Two real people who put a lock here, and there've got to be thousands of others..." He hurried to keep up, having fallen behind once again. "Is there one here that has your name on it?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Francis let out a quick laugh, but it was different than usual; it sounded more like a giggle. "More than one," he said, grinning as if recalling a fond memory. "I usually visit this place on dates. There were a few young women who were more than happy to add another lock to the fence."

Arthur decided against shooting a quip about monogamy. It wasn't his business, after all. "Alfred's name's on one of these," he said after a short pause. "No one else's. Just his. He took a picture to prove it."

"I hope you're not going to try to look for it," came Francis's voice as he continued towards a stately building at the end of the bridge. "In that case, I'll just head back to the apartment. You'll be here a while."

"Of course I'm not, don't be ridiculous," said Arthur, unable to stop himself from shivering as another gust of cold wind rustled through his jacket. "It's too cold to be out here any longer." He hurried up next to Francis, unashamedly pressing his arm against his in the cold. "Besides, it's enough to know that it's around here somewhere."

Francis hummed in agreement. "Cold?" he asked after a quick glance at Arthur.

"You're asking as if you haven't heard me say it repeatedly," Arthur grumbled, the novelty of the bridge beginning to wear off once they stepped back onto the opposite bank and were confronted once again by a frigid gust of wind.

"We'll be back home soon," said Francis, laying an arm over Arthur's shoulders and pulling him closer. "To the market first, and then home for hot coffee. Is this good?"

"Fine," Arthur sputtered, not knowing whether Francis was referring to the plan or the close proximity – it was alright by him either way. In fact, he was counting on the cold to hide the heat on his cheeks that he knew he could only thank Francis for.

They caught the vendors packing up at the market after a metro ride across the city and were able to haggle prices of cheese and garnishes before heading back in the direction of the apartment. The space between them had increased during their time on the metro, but Francis had linked his arm through Arthur's on the walk to the house, the bag of newly-purchased groceries secured beneath his other arm.

Arthur hardly paid attention to Francis's incessant small-talk as they wove their way through hordes of pedestrians to reach the boulangerie on the quiet side street. He occasionally interjected with a "hm" or "is that so," but found his mind to be lingering instead upon the memories of the day, his first real day in Paris. The cathedral, the Pont des Arts, even the simple street market was lovely. All in all, it had been a wonderful debut – apart from the lasting cold, of course.

He glanced over at Francis, who was now telling an animated story about a time when he and Antonio stayed at the bar until three in the morning and then woke up outside the opera house with no recollection of how they arrived there. Francis's arm, linked casually through his as they walked, was warm even through their jackets. Arthur didn't quite know what to think about it. Francis seemed to be acting more or less the same that he had been during the past few days. Was this just a show of friendship? He'd kissed Antonio upon their reunion, so there was no doubt that he was affectionate with his friends. But should he just take it at face value, or was there something else that he should be looking into?

"Arthur?" Francis said, jolting him out of his thoughts.

"Huh?" Arthur shook his head to clear his mind, and realized that they were standing before the front door of Francis's apartment. He'd hardly noticed that they had arrived, let alone walked up the stairway.

"You still have the key," Francis reminded him. "These groceries are heavy and it's still freezing out here. The sooner, the better."

Arthur jammed a hand in his pocket in search of the key that he had forgotten was still in his possession after the bread run that morning. "Right, sorry," he said, fitting the key into the lock and letting them into the frigid room.

It was even colder in the room than it was outside, and Arthur pulled a blanket from the bed and draped it over his shoulders before inquiring what they were going to do now.

"Make dinner," said Francis, setting the groceries down on the table and moving into the kitchen.

"It's only two in the afternoon," Arthur protested, looking longingly at the coffee pot on the counter. At this point, anything warm would be welcome.

"It'll be at least four by the time we're finished," Francis retorted. He handed him a green bell pepper and a paring knife before setting a saucepan on the stove and lighting the burner. "Chop that, will you? There's a cutting board over here…"

It turned out that Francis had been right to start dinner early. Just as he had said, it wasn't until after 4 PM that they were able to sit down to a meal composed of cheese soufflé, salad with feta, and fruit parfait. Arthur wondered how he'd managed to find the fruits and vegetables in the dead of winter. Probably imported from Spain or somewhere where it was still warm.

Arthur curled up on the bed with the blanket heaped over him. He'd gotten up hours before Francis had, and now he was starting to notice just how tired he actually was. The early waking paired with the walking they had done that day made him ready for an early evening.

"It's barely 5 PM, what are you doing going to sleep now?" Francis asked from the kitchen. He'd just finished washing the last of the dishes and was now working on organizing them back into cupboards. "Are you serious?" He hung up a dishtowel and jumped up to sit on the counter. "Who's the lazy slug now?"

"I'm just resting," Arthur protested.

Francis shrugged and flicked on the television. "Take a nap," he said, not attempting to pursue an argument for once. "But if you wake up when it's still light out, there should still be enough time to go into the city again."

"Great," Arthur muttered, covering his face with the blanket and allowing himself to nod off without so much as changing his clothes.

It was so warm beneath the blanket in comparison to the room, and Arthur didn't attempt to stifle a yawn that rose to his lips as he settled in against the pillows. The quiet stream of French from the television faded into white noise in the background as he lost himself into the waiting darkness and warmth…

His eyes snapped open when he felt hands shaking him awake. "S'the matter?" he asked, his words stringing together as he sat up. The analog clock beside the bed read 22:16. "Something wrong?" The lamps and the television had been turned off and the only sources of light were Francis's computer screen and the window overlooking the street.

"Sorry for waking you, but I thought you'd want to see this," came Francis's voice. He took Arthur by the hands and coaxed him towards the window.

Arthur squinted out the window, trying to focus his eyes against the sudden light. His sight cleared with a few blinks and he gazed through the icy windowpane into the street below. In his groggy state, it took a few moments to register what he was seeing.

Shimmery spots of silver were drifting down from the gray sky, and the ground and rooftops were blanketed in a powdered-sugar dusting of white. A heavy silence had fallen upon the street while he slept, the only color coming from the orange light of the lamp in front of the building across the alley. Not a single pair of footprints tarnished the light covering, leaving the drifts to lay in undisturbed peace on the sidewalks.

"Snow," said Arthur, his mouth hanging open with the realization. He'd seen snow fall once in London, but it had been an unforeseen incident in the spring of one year. There was something different about this, something more untroubled. He felt the corners of his mouth turn up in what he realized was a smile.

Arthur stumbled back towards the table and searched around for his jacket in the darkness. He wrapped it over his shoulders as he slipped on his shoes before feeling his way into the hallway. Once out of the front door, he treaded his way down the stairwell as best as he could in the dim light. Ignoring Francis's inquiries, he stepped out of the doorway at the bottom of the stairs and into the newly fallen snow.

The thin layer of powder covering the street crunched beneath his shoes as he stepped upon the sidewalk. The air of silence that had been prevalent even from the window above was even more ubiquitous now that he was standing beneath the heavy sky, soft flakes sparkling in the lamplight as they drifted gently to join the thin blanket of white covering the streets and sidewalks.

"Are you seeing this?" Arthur asked, looking over his shoulder to where Francis stood in the doorway.

"Of course," he replied. He was smiling, but looked half-frozen as he leaned against the doorway with his hands in his pockets.

Arthur reached down to pick up a handful of snow, then watched as it began to melt at his touch. His hand stung as if pricked by needles until he dropped the ice back to the ground and put his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

"Happens every few years or so here," Francis said. He smiled over at him in the dim light of the streetlamp. "I'm glad you're here to see it."

"Me too," he replied as a shiver ran through him. "Still cold as fuck, though."

Francis laughed. "You should go back to bed. Sorry for waking you. I just thought you should see this because it might not still be here tomorrow."

Arthur mumbled in assent before taking one more long look down the street and making his way back up the narrow staircase to the apartment. He fell at once into the bed after tossing his jacket and shoes beside the door. He didn't care that he was still in his slacks from before his nap. Now, he just wanted to go back to that warm place he was in before Francis woke him up.

Beside him, Francis powered down the laptop and set it on the floor. Silence fell after Francis had settled in. And then, "Arthur?"

Arthur jolted out of what had been the first clutches of sleep. He'd already started to fade into the relaxed world of blankets and warmth. "Huh?" he asked, trying to bring himself to attention once more in order to focus.

There was a pause, and then Arthur felt Francis drape an arm around his waist. "Is this okay?" came his voice from the darkness, barely more than a whisper.

"Yes," Arthur said without hesitation, surprising even himself with the immediate reply. His own lack of time spent debating it was worrying to him. He'd fallen asleep many times with Alfred's arms around him, whether on purpose or by accident. It had been seven months since then. This hardly felt any different. But under normal circumstances, it should have taken him longer to decide whether or not he was comfortable falling asleep in someone's arms once again.

A voice in his head asked if these circumstances were really that abnormal.

He quickly shut up that outlandish notion. He'd been in love before, and this was different. _Completely_ different. Francis was just some person he'd helped out once or twice, so there was no way. Right?

"Arthur?"

"Hm?"

The pause that followed lasted such a long time that Arthur assumed that Francis had fallen asleep. Although he was intrigued about what he had to say, Arthur guessed that it was a better idea to let him sleep. However, the answer came nonetheless.

"I'm sorry for dragging you into this."

Arthur adjusted his pillow. "What do you mean?"

"I didn't mean to pull you along through this," he said, seeming to take his time in choosing his words. "I was just thinking about how strange it is that you're here right now. That you even agreed to come along." He paused. "I guess it's more than that, though. I mean… I guess I'm talking about all of it. Since the first day. And more recently, especially. I'm sorry for getting you involved with that sort of shit."

All of it from day one… He didn't really mean that, did he? And "more recently…" He could guess what Francis meant by that, but there was no chance that he wanted to talk about it any more than he had that one morning in Arthur's kitchen. "Don't apologize," Arthur said. It would be best not to bring up what he had been previously referring to. "I had time to spare, so don't think you're imposing. You needed help and I'm glad that you got it."

Arthur nearly apologized himself, realizing how corny and cliché that sounded, but Francis interrupted him. "That's not—" He stopped without finishing whatever it was he was about to say. "I mean…"

It seemed as if he wanted to continue, and Arthur waited patiently. After a while, though, it became clear that the conversation was over. Arthur realized that he was the only one awake when Francis's breathing grew deep and even.

He gazed over Francis's shoulder at the square of orange light that the window cast on the opposite wall. Tiny shadows drifted silently down, reminiscent of the snow falling without a hint of sound into the street below.

Arthur closed his eyes, slipping his own arm around Francis's waist. His fingers and toes were still cold and numb from the walk through the freezing powder, but the blissful warmth shared between the two of them offered a welcome comfort after the bitterly cold excursion, and Arthur graciously fell into an untroubled sleep once again.

He hadn't thought about the notebook at all since he'd tossed it in his suitcase along with the rest of the things that he had packed up to bring to Paris. Vacations have a strange way of doing that – they make it so easy to keep difficult thoughts out of your head by filling your mind with the wonders and curiosities that always come around while visiting a new place. But if he had checked the book before he laid down his head that night, his carefree mood would have dissipated like smoke.


	11. Chapter 11

_Apparently, I'm incapable of writing short chapters._

* * *

Arthur hadn't seen this many people in one place since he visited Piccadilly the week before Christmas. Swirls of color obscured the streets as pedestrians passed through in stark contrast to the once-again grey sky. There was so much to do and see in these few blocks that contained the majority of the festival, the sidewalks teeming with booths and bandstands and the air swirling with laughter and music. Tables covered with dishes and paintings lined the streets, and the aromas of the widest array of foods cycled through the air around them.

The snow from the previous night had stuck and was glistening in the morning light when they woke up earlier that day. The sky was overcast once again; Arthur found himself having to pile on more jackets and scarves than usual in order to keep warm on his way to pick up breakfast. It was cold, the kind of weather where your breath escapes in a cloud before you and you feel as if you'll turn to ice if you stand in one place for too long.

Arthur kept his arms pulled in close to him – this was partially against the cold, but mostly in order to keep from accidentally elbowing anyone as he and Francis wandered along with the throngs of people towards a bandstand at the end of the street. He still had half of a loaf of bread with him leftover from the bakery, and he clutched the bag to his chest in an attempt to keep it from getting crunched or dropped in the crowd. He hoped to save it for lunch since Francis had told him that the food at the festival would be overpriced, even for Paris.

He spent some time snapping photographs with the cheap digital camera that his mother insisted that he bring when Arthur had told her that he would be taking an impromptu trip to Paris for the week. He'd as much as forgotten it for the past few days, instead letting it sit in his suitcase alongside the notebook and a bag containing school supplies for in case he was able to find time to start studying or working on an essay or two that he would be missing while in France.

She hadn't been pleased when Arthur had told her that he was taking a week off from school. After an hour and multiple compromises, she'd given in. "If you _must_ go, promise you'll at least make an effort to catch up in school while you're there, alright?" she'd pleaded over the phone. When he'd assured her that he would try to stay caught up, she'd simply told him to "take lots of pictures, will you?"

He figured that he didn't have to take too many to keep her happy. A cliché photo of the Eiffel Tower attached to the end of an email would be enough. Perhaps a photograph of Francis as well, just to prove that he was, in fact, there to help a friend move and not just skipping off to France on a whim. But for the time being, fiddling with the camera settings and capturing a photo or two of the many merchant stands sticking out of the muddy snow gave him something to do while Francis was busy spending far more time than necessary perusing the wares of a spice salesman. There were so many interesting things to see and photograph here at the festival that Arthur found himself actually being glad that he had been forced to bring the camera.

It hardly even felt like the same city that he had been exploring for the past few days. That city had seemed quieter, more subdued – of course, most of this "exploring" had been simply walking the streets near Francis's apartment, which was so far away from central Paris that Arthur wondered if it was even within the city limits. Francis said that his neighborhood was one of the least expensive places to live while still being in Paris, and that it didn't really matter that he lived far away from the inner city since the Metro station was just a short walk away. "Plus, I'm close friends with the proprietor so I can have extra time on my payments," he explained almost with a sense of pride. "Antonio's a good man."

There hadn't been a larger amount of people milling the streets until their journey to Île de la Cité the previous day, and even the crowds there couldn't compare to the masses that had shown up for this festival. It was overwhelming with all of the sights, sounds, and smells to pay attention to while simultaneously making an effort not to step on anyone in these close quarters.

"I got what I was looking for," said Francis, holding up the paper bag that Arthur knew contained the little jar of ground nutmeg that he had bought from the vendor near the entrance of the festival block. "Anything else you want to look at before we leave?"

Arthur shook his head and took hold of the sleeve of Francis's jacket to pull him towards the exit of the street. Although it was interesting and – in all other words – fun to spend time in the festival block, the crowds were beginning to make him nervous and he wished more than anything that they could find a place to sit down for a break. Once off of the main street, he led Francis to a bench beneath a leaf-bare tree and took a grateful seat.

He sighed, breathing in the chilled air as Francis sat beside him.

"Don't like crowds?" Francis asked.

"Never have," Arthur muttered, distracted by flicking through the settings of his camera. "Ah, here it is!" he said, holding down the shutter button to focus it. "Snow setting. Perfect. Francis, smile." He pointed the camera towards Francis and waited.

Francis raised his eyebrows before giving a slightly-irritated looking smile.

Arthur snapped the photo. "That looks awful," he commented immediately.

"Excuse me," said Francis, looking cross.

"No matter, test shot. Here, actually smile this time." He snapped another picture. "See, look, the second one is tons better." He turned the camera so that Francis could see.

He grinned. "I guess you're right," he said. "Although the first one wasn't bad either. I'm rather photogenic."

Arthur snorted, powering down the camera and putting it back into his pocket. "Right. Could've likened you to a frog in that first picture." He stood, brushing snow from the back of his jeans.

"Now _that_ was uncalled for," said Francis, standing as well. "I was going to suggest that we visit the Tour Eiffel after this, but maybe you'd rather go by yourself," he continued, a certain air of aloofness in his voice that betrayed his obvious bluff.

"Fine by me," Arthur replied stubbornly, knowing that he would end up going with him anyway. "I can see it from here, Francis, so don't think that I need your help. I'll see you back at the room later." He began to stroll away in the direction of the tower, grinning as he heard Francis's footsteps crunching through the old snow behind him.

"So rude," muttered Francis.

* * *

The Eiffel Tower is one of the most recognized structures in all of France – perhaps even the world. The simple mention of Paris conjures its image. Immense, regal…

Overrated.

It was nearly deserted when they arrived at the second floor – Francis assured him that there would be many more people there during the warmer seasons, almost too many to move in fact. But now, just as January was giving way to February, most seemed to have been deterred by the frigid weather.

Arthur had closed his eyes in the elevator. He knew that he was probably missing out on the view out the window as they ascended; however, tolerance of heights had never exactly been his forte. He'd instead grasped Francis's hand and shut his eyes tightly against the watery light filtering through the many windows, shushing Francis when he began to laugh at him.

The top floor was closed due to weather, but the view from the second floor was breathtaking. Buildings alight with street lamps illuminating their snow-covered roofs sprawled in every direction as far as the eye could see, the streets weaving the structures into concrete designs that gave the city the effect of a completed, geometric puzzle. From this height the noise of the vehicles in the street below was nearly inaudible, and a clear, clean sense of calm settled across the entire floor of the tower.

Arthur gripped the freezing handrail for support as he closed his eyes against the height once more. He wished that he had brought gloves with him on this trip, seeing as he'd been brushing remaining snow from nearly every surface that he'd come into contact with that morning. Ice had built up on the handrails of the tower with no one to brush it away to the ground so far beneath them. Perhaps that was a good thing. Could a snowball hurt someone from this height if it fell upon a pedestrian below? He didn't want to risk finding out.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" Francis said as he leaned upon the railing beside him. "I've found that this is a good thinking spot. When there aren't a thousand people here, I mean."

"I can see why," Arthur replied. Despite the wind that seemed to be even stronger here than it had been on the ground, there was something positively peaceful about the isolation from people and sound. And the view was nothing to sneer at, of course.

Francis seemed as if he were about to say something, but instead gave a short cough against the sleeve of his jacket before gazing out across the snow-dusted city.

After a time, Arthur spoke again – not so much out of discomfort at the silence, which was so often the case, but out of unwilled obligation. "You come here a lot, then?"

"Not particularly. Emma's scared of heights so she only came here once with me, and Antonio's usually working." He cast an almost imperceptible grimace at the scaffolding that made the floor beneath them. "And this isn't a very nice place to visit alone."

Arthur hummed in agreement. If Francis wasn't here with him right now, he would have done a quick lap around the observation deck before catching the elevator back down just to say he'd been there. He could see how visiting alone was practically pointless unless there was some reason it had to be done. Which, off the top of his head, he couldn't think of.

"You see there, past the bridge," Francis said, pointing out into the distance towards the outskirts of the residential areas. "That's where we live, over there." He dropped his arm to the railing again. "You can't see it from here, of course. We don't have a view of the tower from our window, so it wouldn't make sense if we could." He laughed, a sound that Arthur realized he wasn't quite used to hearing. It was nice to hear.

Arthur took a step closer to him and linked an arm through his. He hoped Francis was alright with that. It was freezing, and Francis was warm, and he supposed the closer proximity was enjoyable in addition to that. "We've only been in Paris for two days, and you already seem like a completely different person," Arthur remarked, being sure not to look him in the eye.

"Can you fault me for that?"

"No, but I can call you two-faced and be right on the money," Arthur said, unable to decide for himself whether or not he was joking.

"Two-faced," Francis repeated.

"Not that it's a bad thing," Arthur continued quickly, unwittingly tightening his grip on Francis's arm. "I mean, you really seemed to hate London."

"Can't argue with that," he muttered in response.

Arthur looked over at him for the first time since they'd reached the second floor. "Why is that? It isn't a horrible place once you get used to it." He leaned against the freezing handrail again, gazing down at the plaza below. "Not too different from here, really. Why do you hate it so much?"

"I didn't at first. I actually liked it there." He absentmindedly brushed some snow from the railing. "When I thought I'd be going to art school there, I mean. Regular university was too tedious and unrewarding, so I spent all of my time worrying about school and work. I guess all of that bitterness changed my perception of things."

"Hm." Arthur leaned slightly against Francis in combat with the cold and waited for him to continue. When he didn't, Arthur rested his head on his arm with a sigh. "Why do you always do the thing where you say something and then refuse to complete the thought?" he asked irritably.

Francis looked at him in confusion. "That was a complete thought."

Arthur continued as if Francis hadn't said anything. "You didn't used to do that. Now it seems like you're always trying to dramatize everything," he continued. "Is that why you just let it be silent for minutes after you say anything? Pause for effect?"

Francis sniffed indignantly. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Right on the money, then.

Arthur never got to respond for at that moment, the heavy grey sky opened up with rain, and a short dash towards the elevator brought their conversation to an end.

* * *

Arthur found it hard to stay focused on his work after the few glasses of wine he'd had with dinner. Ever since the previous summer, he'd only had a few drinks on a handful of special occasions and tried to stay away from alcohol as much as possible. Francis had respected his wishes when he'd insisted that he wasn't going to have any wine with dinner, but Arthur found himself pouring a glass when he'd finished his meal. Surprisingly, it wasn't as horrible as he'd expected. The concentration issue, however, was a different story.

"This is ridiculous," he shouted, throwing his pen to the tabletop after a while of staring down at a blank sheet of paper.

"For the first time in his life, Mister Studious is at a loss," came Francis's voice from where he lay on the floor beside the window. He'd been tossing a tennis ball into the air and catching it repeatedly ever since the end of dinner, and he made no indication of stopping anytime soon.

"Why the hell do you keep doing that, it's been nearly an hour and there's absolutely no point in it," Arthur quipped back at him.

He caught the tennis ball and rolled over to look at him. "Does it bother you?"

Arthur scowled down at the paper. "Well… No, but there's just no point," he repeated feebly.

Francis sighed and stood up, trudging towards the table. He took the chair next to Arthur and leaned over to examine the paper. "You didn't even write anything," he said.

"Really now, I hadn't realized," Arthur grumbled. He flicked the pen defiantly across the paper, leaning down to rest his head on the table. He hadn't had enough wine to get him anywhere remotely near drunk, but he couldn't ignore the faint dizziness that buzzed through his mind, leaving behind trails of muffling cotton that made it hard to keep a single thought in his head for more than a few seconds at a time.

Francis leaned his forehead against the table as well. "What are you even supposed to be writing about?"

"Short stories by Anton Chekhov and Nathaniel Hawthorne," he replied, burying his face in his hands. "Open-ended compare and contrast essay. We were allowed to write about whatever we wanted, and it sounded like a good idea at the time."

"Why the hell would you choose something like that on purpose?" said Francis. "All of your classmates are probably writing about sports teams or television."

"I don't care about sports teams and television." Arthur yawned. "God, I'm going to fall asleep right here…"

Francis stood and turned out the overhead light in exchange for a smaller lamp that shed just enough light on the table. "At least get something written down first," he said, falling heavily into the chair again. "If you go back to England without anything accomplished, I know you're going to try to blame me for it. And I'm not going to stand for that." He gestured to the paper once again. "So write."

Arthur bit his lip as he drew out a two-columned table on the sheet of paper. "When I go back to England," he repeated, his voice quiet as he concentrated on scrawling "Chekhov" and "Hawthorne" at the top of their respective columns. "I hadn't really been thinking about that," he admitted.

"Hm?" Francis was still resting his head on his arms upon the table, and his eyes were closed. Arthur was reminded of his reluctance to wake up for breakfast that morning. Not that it was anything new, of course, but Arthur couldn't help but worry about him. That's what friends did, right?

Arthur cursed under his breath, scratching out the few lines that he had written. "I just mean," he started, sticking the pen behind his ear and crossing his arms in adamancy, "I've been so caught up in being here and seeing everything that there is to see in Paris that I haven't quite been paying attention to the fact that I'm going to be heading back to London in a few days' time." He leaned back in his chair. "I don't know if I actually want to go back, now that I think about it. Staying here any longer really isn't an option, though."

"I thought you didn't like it here in Paris."

"I never said anything of the sort."

"You insinuated it."

"Paris is fine," he said, a bit exasperated at this line of questioning. "A little overrated, of course, but I can see why you find it a nice place to live. And why Al literally never shut up about it for weeks once he returned back to London."

"Well I'm glad to hear that you're not a total stick in the mud," Francis mumbled. "But," he continued over Arthur's protests, "why is it that you're not looking forward to going back home?"

There it was. The question that he was so frequently asked and that he so frequently avoided talking about. "School, mostly," he said, which wasn't a lie. "Not looking forward to going back to work, either. And once I'm back, it'll hardly be a week before Feliciano's on the doorstep again."

"I like Feliciano," Francis cut in.

"So do I, but it gets…" He stopped, searching for the right word. "Tiring, I guess."

Francis didn't say anything for a while. Arthur considered nudging him to make sure he didn't fall asleep hunched over the table. But after a few minutes of silence save for the sound of the rain tapping against the windows during which Arthur was able to fill out a line or two of suitable notes, he spoke up again. "But that can't be all, can it?"

"I can assure you, that's basically it," Arthur said. Another completed line. At this rate, he'd most likely have most of the main points of his paper mapped out by the time he began the lonely train ride back to London.

"Basically?" Francis pressed.

Arthur yawned again, sure that he'd have to turn in soon. There was only so much Chekhov he could process at one time, especially with Francis pestering him like this. "It doesn't matter," he said. He scribbled a few more lines before setting down the pen and reading through what he had written. "Why do you want to know, anyway?"

Francis shrugged. "If it's important to you, then I'd like to hear about it."

Arthur pursed his lips and flipped over the paper, tired of looking at it. "It's not very important," he muttered, folding his arms again as he looked away. "Being here has kept me busy, and I need to have an array of things to focus on at once in order to function." He stopped, debating whether or not to continue. "It makes it easier to avoid thinking about things I'd rather forget."

An image flashed through his mind, a flashbulb memory of Alfred sitting on his bed in that dark room, his knees pulled up to his chest as he explained the tragedy that had befallen his family. Arthur squinted his eyes shut and gritted his teeth as he willed himself to think about something else, anything else. He wished Francis would say something. If this was another one of his damned "dramatic pauses", he swore he'd punch him.

"You could stay," Francis said suddenly.

Arthur opened his eyes. "What?"

Francis had straightened up at long last, and was looking over at him with an unfamiliar look in his eye. "You could get a job here. You wouldn't have to go to school, and you could stay with me until you find a—"

"I wish that were possible," he said, raising his voice a little in order to make himself heard. "I'd like that. I really would."

"But?"

"But it's not realistic," he finished. "I have to complete school, and get a degree, and move on from everything that happened. I can't just give up now."

Francis moved almost imperceptibly closer. "We could split the rent. You wouldn't have to work so hard anymore." He stopped, a sudden expression of realization shadowing his face. "Or is that the problem? You'd rather find someone other than me to connect you to this place?"

"No, of course that's not it." Arthur stood and poured another glass of wine for himself. After sitting for dinner and homework, he felt the need to take a break to walk around a bit before finishing up his comparison table. He walked to the window and put his palm against the cold glass, watching the rain trail down the other side. "I've said this before – I'm not sure why I decided to come stay with you in the first place. We don't have an awful lot of history between us, but we're not strangers, are we?" He took a sip from the glass. "I like being with you."

Arthur stopped when he felt an arm slip around his waist. His breath caught as Francis leaned in towards him and placed a hand over his own. His mind went blank for a split second as thoughts raced through his head.

And then Francis was kissing him, gently at first but with a growing intensity when his efforts were not rejected. Arthur felt the cold pane of the window against his shoulders as he raised his arms to wrap around Francis's back and pull him closer. He smelled faintly of red wine, of which Arthur's own glass lay forgotten on the windowsill.

Was this what Francis's increased affections had been leading up to? Had Arthur been wrong in believing that he was simply being treated as a friend? And if he was, then was that what he wanted?

The rain continued its light pattering against the window and the light from the lamp outside shone in as brightly as ever, and the ice leftover on the other side of the glass slowly melted away in the downpour. Francis's eyes were closed as he guided a hand to rest at the back of Arthur's neck.

Arthur felt his breathing hitch as the frenzied thoughts in his head were replaced all at once with one sure phrase. _My god, this is really happening. _

Francis pulled away at long last, seeming to search Arthur's eyes for the reaction which had been unexpectedly delayed. His eyes flickered between betraying states of relief and apprehension as he waited for Arthur to say something.

"What was that for?" Arthur muttered in a voice he could hardly keep from wavering. "A friendly gesture, right? Like with Antonio?"

Francis smiled. "Not exactly."

Arthur grabbed Francis by the front of his shirt and pulled him to him before he could think twice about it, their lips meeting briefly once more. He pulled away quickly, looking instead to the ground and wishing his burning cheeks would stop giving him away. He clenched his fists to keeps them from shaking as a sudden wave of nervousness washed over him. "I still have more work to do," he mumbled, picking up the wine glass and turning away from Francis. "I'm sorry."

Francis didn't move from before the window as Arthur took a seat at the table. Arthur pulled the paper to him once again, picking up the pen and tapping it absently against the tabletop. He willed himself to focus on the paper in front of him. His mind wandered, revisiting the scene that had played out mere moments before...

The noises of dishes clattering against each other filled the air after a while. Francis was beginning to clear up the pans and silverware from dinner. Was that it, then? Were they going to continue as if nothing had transpired between them? Arthur hid his face in sudden self-consciousness. He supposed that was his fault. He found himself wishing that he hadn't sought out a quick escape from the situation just minutes earlier.

He mentally scolded himself for losing track of his thoughts. He'd have plenty of time to think things over once he finished his work. And honestly, he wanted to put it off as long as possible.

Twenty minutes later, Arthur couldn't ignore it anymore. Francis had already gone to bed, and the room was still dimly-lit by just the small lamp in the corner. The paper was filled with lines of writing, and normally he would have been glad that he had gotten so much accomplished. He let the pen clatter to the table as he rested his chin in his hands and allowed himself to think freely for the first time in half an hour.

At first, he'd taken the kiss as a friendly gesture, like how he'd greeted Antonio and Emma the first day they'd arrived in Paris. And that was alright by him. It was good to know that he was trusted. But then, when he'd asked if that was the reason, Francis had said, "_Not exactly._"

Arthur had told himself the day before that he was not in love. He felt different with Francis than he had felt with Alfred. That didn't have to be a bad thing, though. He couldn't deny that the kiss they had shared had been enjoyable. Surprising, yes… But not unwanted.

Maybe this was a good thing. He knew that he should try to move on. But the only reason he began speaking with Francis in the first place was because he'd sworn not to let the same thing happen twice. Would pursuing this sort of relationship help or hinder that goal?

But for now, he couldn't ignore the sudden elation that he felt when he thought of Francis leaning in towards him…

He couldn't fight the smile that found its way to his lips at the realization that he was happy with the way things were turning out.

He stood with a sigh and opened his suitcase. That school folder was around here somewhere… He dug through the contents of the bag, finally pulling out what felt like the folder he was looking for.

He stopped suddenly as he looked down at the small, leather-bound notebook in his hand. It had been days since he had last consulted it. It was probable that nothing had changed, but just in case…

Arthur pulled the school folder from the bag and slipped the paper inside before tossing it back into the suitcase. He stifled yet another yawn before going back to the table and setting the book upon the surface. Just a quick perusal to make up for the fact that he'd been ignoring it for so long, and then he could go to sleep.

He took a seat, still grinning from earlier and with a heart that felt lighter than ever.

The dim light from the lamp seemed to be growing darker by the minute as it cast warped shadows across the table, making Arthur's vision blur as he opened the front cover of the book. Everything was as it always had been, the yellowing pages and spindly handwriting familiar to him as he turned page after page of entries. There were many more entries than there had been now that they had been spending so much time together. The pages seemed to go on and on.

His elated feeling slowly began to ebb away with every page that turned. He thought that he remembered that more than three-quarters of the book had been filled with empty pages at the end the last time that he had checked. Why were the entries continuing? His brow furrowed when more and more pages passed. When would it end? With every fully-filled page that passed, he grew more and more anxious.

And then, he arrived at the final page.

Three paragraphs dictating the events of the evening. A few meager lines separating the last entry from the bottom of the page. Shorter than ever before.

The notebook was at an end once again.


	12. Chapter 12

Arthur leaned back in his chair, disbelief written across his features. This wasn't supposed to happen. Things were going well; Francis was alright now.

Or so he'd said, at least.

Arthur looked over to where Francis had crashed earlier. He'd fallen asleep unnaturally quickly that evening. Perhaps the wine had aided with that. Arthur didn't want to wake him, but he had to make sure sooner rather than later.

Quietly, he tiptoed to the bed and sat beside him before shaking his shoulder.

Francis stirred after a moment and mumbled something Arthur didn't understand. He opened his eyes, looking up at him in equal parts confusion and irritation.

"Hi… Erm, sorry to wake you," he started awkwardly, not sure how to begin. He put a cautious arm around him before continuing. "How are you feeling?" he asked, hoping Francis would read into his words.

Francis leaned his head against Arthur's shoulder. "I was fine until you woke me up," he mumbled, his speech slurred with drowsiness.

"But you're doing okay?" he persisted.

"Yes, I'm alright," Francis said again, looking up at Arthur with questioning eyes. "What's this all about, Arthur?"

Arthur shook his head. "It's nothing," he said. "I'm glad, though. Keep… Keep doing alright."

Francis didn't look convinced. "Okay," he said slowly.

"Forget about it," Arthur said, standing and ambling back to the table again. He could feel his gaze following him but ignored it as he picked up the notebook and took Francis's mobile phone from where it lay on the kitchen counter. "I'm borrowing your phone, he said over his shoulder before stepping out into the hallway.

The rain was pouring onto the sidewalk outside of the boulangerie, but the air was no warmer than it had been with snow lining the streets earlier that day. Arthur found himself wishing he'd brought his jacket along with him. But he'd be back inside in a moment; there was just one thing that he had to take care of, and then it was out of the rain once again.

He pulled two phones from his pocket, Francis's and his own. The process to make a call was more arduous since his mobile didn't receive service here; he had to go through his contacts, find the number for the hospital, and type it into Francis's phone. He pressed the call button and held it to his ear, listening to the repeated dial tone. He hoped someone would answer. It was impossible to speak with his grandfather tonight, but he needed his questions answered. He knew that it was conceivable in theory to change the outcome of the notebook, but was last time just a fluke? He had to know for sure, and he knew that his grandfather would be able to give him more information on the subject.

"Hello, my name's Arthur Kirkland," Arthur said, trying not to stumble over his words when a young man greeted him over the line. "I'm looking to speak with my grandfather, Edmond Kirkland, in room 112. And I know it's too late to talk to him directly, but could I leave a message?"

There was silence on the other line other than the clicking of a keyboard. "It seems that room 112 is empty at the moment," the receptionist told him. "I could give you the telephone numbers of some other hospitals in the area, if you'd like. He may have been transferred."

"No, that's alright," said Arthur, feeling strangely cold as he stood out on the sidewalk. "Thank you for your time."

Arthur dialed another number, one he knew by heart this time. It was eight o'clock at night in England. She would be awake for sure. He listened as the dial tone went on and on, growing more anxious the longer the phone continued ringing. She never let the phone ring more than twice before answering.

Finally, the tone stopped with a click, and his mother's voice came across the line. "Arthur," she said, her voice tired.

"Mum?" he replied at once in response to that worrisome tone. "I just called the hospital, where's grandfather? Did they transfer him?"

In the silence that followed, Arthur felt his heart sink like a stone. He knew what her answer would be before it came.

"Honey, your grandfather died a few nights ago."

Arthur made no attempt to move or speak as the information sunk in. They'd been expecting this the whole time so it shouldn't come as a shock; Arthur had forgotten that his grandfather had gone as far as to tell him, with the help of the notebook, that they wouldn't speak again. But what was he supposed to do now? He didn't trust himself to play it by ear, not when the stakes were this high.

And then he was bounding back up the stairs and into the apartment, the phone to his ear the entire way. "Why didn't anyone tell me?" he shouted into the mouthpiece as he reached for his jacket and struggled to pull it over his arms.

"He didn't want you to worry," she said, her voice strained. "I knew you'd say you were going to come home, and–"

"Of course I am, I'm re-booking my ticket right now," he assured her, glancing around the room hurriedly. "Francis, where's my computer?"

"In the kitchen," he replied. He was standing beside the table with a mug of tea in his hand and concern in his eyes. Arthur hadn't noted his presence in his haste. "What happened?" Francis asked, setting down his tea and following Arthur into the kitchen.

His mother's voice sounded in the earpiece once more. "Arthur stop, why are you doing this?" she asked. "There's nothing you can do."

Arthur stopped halfway through signing in to the computer. That was it. He knew that she was right. "Don't say that," he muttered, returning to the keyboard and typing in the web address for the ticket station. "I need to be there for the family right now."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. And then, "I'm not sure it would make a difference whether you're here or not."

He hesitated with the mouse pointer over the "change departure date" button. "What do you mean?" he asked, not liking where this was headed.

"Now, don't take this the wrong way," she began with caution in her voice – Arthur grimaced, recalling how she always said that before making a statement that would end up throwing him into a temper – "but you haven't exactly been a very active member of the family recently, and I'm not the only one who's noticed."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, making no attempt to hide the growing look of contempt on his face. There was no one to hide it from other than Francis, who was sitting across from him at the table, silently sipping his tea as he focused upon the tabletop before him. "You're going to have to be a lot less cryptic than that if you want me to understand you," Arthur said, his voice heavy with warning.

Another pause. "You've always been the defensive type, but this is going too far. You're not even trying anymore." She raised her voice when Arthur tried to argue. "Let me finish talking. I've thought a lot about this and it's something you need to hear," she said. She was resolute now, the wavering tone from earlier completely gone as she continued to speak. "Everyone could tell that you couldn't care less about what they had to say at the reunion a few weeks back. Do you know how many people commented about that to me? It's embarrassing, Arthur. You're reflecting badly on your father and I as parents, and this has to stop."

"We can talk about this when I get back, and I'll explain as best as I can," he cut in before she could respond. "I'm re-booking my ticket. I'll be back tomorrow and we can talk then."

"No, Arthur, listen to me." Arthur felt his heart sink like a weight at the sternness of her voice. "This is an upsetting enough situation already, and I'm not about to let your negativity make it any worse."

He squinted his eyes shut, trying not to lash out. That would only make it worse. He'd listen to what she had to say, hang up, book his ticket… And then he'd get on the train the next day, and he'd talk with his mother, and she'd hug him and apologize for saying all of this. That's how things like this always turned out.

"Don't come back to London for this. You obviously didn't care enough about him, and I don't want you dragging the rest of the family down with you."

Arthur snapped. "Of course I cared about him!" he insisted, returning at once back to shouting into the mouthpiece. "I cared about him because he was the only one who cared about me–"

"Don't pretend that we didn't care," she responded, her voice growing to a shout as well. She paused and, after a moment, began once again with a lower voice. "You've changed, Arthur. What happened to the son who cared so much?" Her voice still rung out strong, but Arthur could hear the quiet sniffles nestled between her words.

He brushed away an angry tear that had been threatening to fall. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. It was all true, of course. But still, he couldn't explain the shock those words put him in as he tried to gather his thoughts enough to put together a response that would get across to his mother how truly sorry he was about all of this. "I'm sorry, Mum," he managed to choke out at long last. "I've been a total arse recently, and I know that. But I can fix it. I promise that I can." He took a deep breath. "I just need to come home."

There was a deep sigh on the other end of the line. "I've tried to ignore it, and I've tried to understand. Really, I have. But ever since Alfred–"

"Don't bring Alfred into this," he said quietly.

"I have to, Arthur. That's when it all started."

"Look, I promise I'll explain," he said, almost pleading.

"Not now, Arthur." She suddenly sounded tired, as if the weight of the conversation were getting to her. "This is a hard time for our family, and you can't do anything to help with that other than stay where you are. Please," she said, a tone of finality in her voice. "It's what's best for all of us right now. I'm sorry."

Arthur opened and closed his mouth, unsure of how to continue. "You're just upset about your father," he said, sure that's where all of this was coming from. "You're under a lot of stress, I understand that. Tomorrow you'll apologize and tell me to come back, and–"

"Not this time." Her voice was quieter than ever.

"Mum, wait–"

"I'm hanging up."

The line went dead.

Arthur dropped the phone to the table. His mind raced, skimming across their conversation, paying close attention to those particular sentences that cut so mercilessly into him.

And then he couldn't sit still any longer. He shoved the chair back away from the table and stalked towards the cupboard where he knew Francis kept his cigarettes.

"What happened?" asked Francis as Arthur slipped a carton and a lighter into his pocket.

Arthur shook his head and hurried past him and out the door. He passed Antonio in the hallway, who had a hand raised beside the door as if he were about to knock. He continued down the stairs and into the street without a backwards glance at either of them.

There was no way he could tell how long he walked. All that he knew was that when he finally stopped, he was soaked to the skin with rain, standing in the middle of a street that he had never seen before, and no closer to any answers than he had been when he stormed out of the flat. He took shelter beneath the overhang of a restaurant. The closest street lamp was burned out, casting the street into near darkness. Fantastic.

He flicked open the top of the scratched, silver-bodied lighter and held it to the end of the cigarette that he kept steady between his teeth. It wasn't long before he found himself seated upon the narrow curb, leaning against the wall of the restaurant as he watched the ember at the end of his cigarette smolder.

The smoke burned his mouth and lungs and left him coughing. This wasn't something that he did very often. The scratchy sensation at the back of his throat was none too pleasant, but he always found that the smoke had a sort of calming effect on him after a while. The mild discomfort, including fighting the urge to cough every few seconds, was worth being able to think more sensibly.

He knew that he was different now than he had been seven months earlier. He couldn't even pretend to deny that. Loving Alfred had made him see things in a different light, but he'd withdrawn himself from everything and everyone even more after his death than he had been before they had met.

Arthur covered his face with his arm, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and trading the smoke for the cool, rain-scented night air. In his experience, at least, the worst-case scenario was always the one that happened. He always ruined things so badly. He hadn't meant to get inyo a shouting match, but something in her words cut so deeply that he couldn't help but fight back in defense.

It was wounding because she was right. He never tried anymore. All he did was go to school, go to work, go to his apartment, and repeat. It wasn't very meaningful, now that he thought about it. He didn't know what he was going to do after he finished school, and no matter how many parents and uncles and aunts suggested careers, nothing at all interested him. Was this all that the next years had in store?

Arthur brought his hands to his temples, trying to force himself not to think that far ahead right now. That line of thought couldn't lead to anything good.

A movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he looked up. A second later, though, he turned back to the cigarette with a scowl.

Francis sat beside him and picked up the carton from where it lay on the curb. Arthur passed him the lighter, never lifting his gaze from the gutter.

"Before you say anything," Arthur started without meeting his eye, "I don't want to talk about it right now."

Francis nodded.

The rain was falling even harder now than it had been earlier and he let the sound of it fill his mind and push out the thoughts from earlier. He didn't want to think about the death of the man who promised to help, about the words that had been hurled at him over the phone, about whatever bull the book was choosing to give him now of all times.

Arthur pulled his knees to his chest, giving up on the cigarette and extinguishing it against the wet cobblestones nearby. He didn't know what to do. Earlier, he'd been sure that his mother was bluffing and would call him again immediately to apologize. He'd been waiting for his phone to ring all throughout his walk. It had remained silent.

That was it, then. After all of this time being the careless deadweight of the family, he was finally being sent away. And the worst part was that he knew he deserved it. They probably wouldn't realize he was missing at all.

So what if he was unwanted this time around? He figured that he should celebrate that. He'd never been one for social gatherings – during the reunion weeks before when everyone had gathered to say their goodbyes, Arthur had been counting down the minutes until he'd be back on his motorcycle and headed to his flat in London.

But this was different. This time, he had a reason to want to go. He wanted to pay his respects to one of the only people who understood, and the only one who he could speak to in regards to nearly everything.

Including that damned notebook that had gotten them all into this mess in the first place.

Arthur hazarded a sideways glance at Francis. His hair was tied back again, for the first time since they had arrived in Paris, to keep it away from the lit cigarette. He didn't _look_ any different now than when the notebook had contained hundreds of empty pages. There was a slight frown upon his lips as he stared across the dark street, but he looked… normal.

But it was that sort of perception that had gotten him into trouble before.

"You always had a cigarette with you whenever I saw you back in London," Arthur said in an effort to think of something else, "but this is the first time I've seen you with one since we arrived here."

He nodded. "Stress habit."

A car passed through the street, headlights casting a clashing light against the buildings and tires splashing through the puddles between the cobblestones. The street returned to its relative calmness when it was out of sight once more, the silence broken only by the monotonous fall of rain against the sidewalk.

"I know you said you didn't want to talk about it," said Francis from beside him. "But if something's bothering you, then feel free."

_Free_ was the last thing he was feeling. "I guess you heard most of that, then," he said. "On the phone, I mean."

"Was that your mother?" he asked, still looking out across the street.

He knew he'd said earlier that he didn't want to talk, but maybe it was a good idea to let it out instead of dwelling on it like he knew he would. "Yeah. She doesn't want me to come to the funeral. Says I'll drag them down."

"Funeral?"

"Remember when you drove me to the hospital to see my grandfather?" He sighed, leaning away from the building and its ridged walls that were beginning to hurt his back. "Apparently he passed away a few days ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "He seemed like a nice man."

"I guess he was." Arthur paused. "He understood, at least. We weren't particularly close, but he understood."

Francis leaned in to put an arm around his shoulders. "What are you thinking?"

Arthur didn't answer right away. Despite how concerned he was, he couldn't just spit out his worries about the notebook to the very person to whom it related. "I guess it's complicated."

When Francis didn't respond, Arthur continued. "I know that my family isn't too fond of me and they wouldn't care whether I show up or not. And I know that I'm not exactly the nicest person to be around, but I can't believe they forbid me from showing up this time…" He stopped. "I didn't think they'd actually go through with it."

Francis nodded, his hand tightening a bit on Arthur's shoulder. "Sometimes, family isn't the best thing to cling to," he said shortly.

Arthur frowned, thinking that over. "I guess you're right."

It seemed as if Francis wanted to say something else, but he ended up in a fit of coughing before he could get a word out.

Arthur glanced warily down at the cigarette in Francis's hand. "Maybe you've had enough of that."

Francis let out one last cough before looking down at it as well. "Maybe you're right," he said, standing and stamping it out on the sidewalk. "Are you ready to go back?"

He nodded and allowed Francis to help him up. "You sure have been coughing a lot recently," he noted. "All day today, really. Are you catching a cold?"

Francis gazed up at the cloudy sky, looking as if he wasn't looking forward to walking back in the rain. "Perhaps," he stated before pulling up the hood of his jacket and starting the walk home.

Arthur picked up the carton of smokes and slipped it into his pocket as he jogged to catch up with Francis. "You'd better stop kissing me, then, because I don't want whatever you've got," he muttered, grabbing Francis's hand like a lifeline.

As if to prove a point, Francis leaned in in an attempt to kiss his cheek. Arthur held up a hand to block him, feigning disgust, and Francis laughed. "I'll try to abstain."

Arthur hardly noticed the driving rain on the way back to the apartment, instead focusing on Francis's calming speech. He didn't pay attention to what he was talking about; perhaps it was a story, or an assurance, or just meaningless nonsense. It hardly mattered. It was enough to listen to the calm words, uttered barely above a whisper, and know that he was safe here.

He'd have time to think about all of this tomorrow. He was content for now to let those thoughts drift away and be replaced with the feeling of Francis's fingers laced with his as they made their way down the rain-battered street towards the comfort that he knew was waiting for them back home.


	13. Chapter 13

_Quick note: I didn't meet my goal of having this finished by the time school starts, because my Sophomore year of college begins tomorrow. We're still looking at ending at 15 chapters with maybe an extra at the end if the last one gets too long. But since I'm working around school now, I'm not quite sure when those chapters will be in. _

_For anyone starting school tomorrow or any time soon, cheers and good luck to all of you!_

_In other news, this chapter turned out darker than it should have been. I'm sorry._

* * *

It was getting late, but Arthur wasn't tired. He'd slept in that morning and spent most of his time lollygagging around the apartment except for a quick excursion to the Champs-Elysées. That outing was short-lived, and while Arthur wasn't bounding with energy at the moment, he felt too awake to even think about going to sleep anytime soon despite the fact that it had already been dark outside for some time.

He'd spent the last hour seated at the table with the book open in his lap. Nothing had changed. There was still just as little empty space as there had been the night before. Something told him that he should be glad that it hadn't gotten any shorter, but the fact still remained that there were only a few lines left between the last entry and the back cover. It wasn't exactly reassuring.

Francis had spent most of his time that evening rummaging around the room. He'd finally decided to try to sort out the boxes that they'd shoved under the bed a few days before, and it had put him in somewhat of a foul mood to be resigned to organizing once again.

Arthur had attempted to strike up a conversation with him, but gave up when Francis only glowered down at the boxes that he was sorting through without much of a response. He didn't want to go out again since it was already dark, and there wasn't much to do around the room if Francis wasn't in the mood for conversation.

He supposed that he could surf the internet for a while on his laptop or find some sort of flash game to play, but he had wasted so much time on the internet that afternoon that he didn't want to be stuck staring at a screen any longer. Instead, he accepted the fact that he didn't have anything to do and ended up laying on the sofa to think over the meager events of the day.

The weather seemed to be beginning to turn at long last. There was still a hint of winter in the air that wouldn't go away for months still, but the snow and ice from the previous day had dissipated and the trickles of water in the gutters were the only evidence that it had rained the entire night before. Foreboding grey clouds still shrouded the city and Arthur found it necessary to wear a jacket, but the temperature was beginning to climb above freezing a few degrees at a time.

Although the climate had changed for the better, Arthur couldn't find it in himself to enjoy it. Usually, when he had heavy things such as these on his mind, he appreciated getting out to take a walk or find something to do to take his mind off of whatever it was that was weighing him down. If he were back home, he would head to the bookstore or café and see if he could pick up a few extra hours. This method couldn't help him very much now.

He'd slept in far too late that morning and woken up exhausted around noon. Francis was awake before him for the first time since he had stayed the night in London the week before. Arthur denied breakfast, settling for a few cups of coffee as he aimlessly scrolled through the dashboard of a social media platform he'd long neglected in an effort to find something to do.

They'd then gotten on the Metro and arrived at Place de la Concorde later that day after Francis insisted that they do something interesting instead of sitting around the apartment all day. The fact that Arthur never particularly liked shopping didn't stop them from visiting nearly every place at the Champs-Elysées: every café, every overpriced department store, every perfume shop that left them coughing from the pungent air. Arthur had never seen so many expensive items in one place before they visited the _Cartier_ on the main street, and was almost glad when they were asked to leave by a sales associate who was obstinately against them loitering there if they weren't planning on buying anything. One look at the price tags assured Arthur that making any sort of purchase was ultimately out of the question.

"If you were here just a few weeks earlier, this street would still be lit up with lights and decorations," Francis had told him. "January isn't the best time to be in Paris, I suppose, but that's always nice to see. Or is it February?"

"January 31st," Arthur had informed him. He hadn't intended to stay into February, but after the call he received the night before, it looked like he didn't have much of a choice.

It was currently Thursday, and he had been hoping to return to London by Monday for school. At this point, however, it seemed like it didn't really matter whether he stayed or went. Now he had the book's warning to think about. He couldn't just leave now when everything was so unsure.

Arthur sighed and covered his eyes with his arm, wondering why he was laying here on a sofa when there was so much else that he should be paying attention to.

He'd mostly gotten over the fact that he'd been excluded from the reunion this time. Although he wanted to be present at the funeral, he didn't much care for the rest of his relatives and he figured it didn't matter after all. He was still waiting for his mother to call back with an apology, but none came. It was worrisome; but, as he'd assured himself the day before, she'd be sure to come around eventually. That wasn't the worst of his problems.

He became more nervous with every look at the end of the book, but there wasn't anything he could do about it other than stay with Francis. He couldn't stay forever; but, at the rate things were going, "forever" didn't seem very far away.

As long as Francis would let him, he'd stay. And if he could do anything to add more pages to the book, he'd–

"What the hell is this?" came Francis's voice from the other side of the room.

Arthur sat up, a wave of apprehension breaking over him when he saw what Francis was holding. In his hand, opened to roughly the halfway-point, was the leather-bound book that he had spent so much time dwelling over during these past few days.

"I said, what the hell is this, Arthur?" he repeated, louder this time.

"I can explain," he said hurriedly, not knowing exactly how to start.

"Please do," he said, glaring at him. "I'd really like to know why the _fuck_ you thought it was a good idea to record–" he flipped a few pages, scanning as he went, "–yes, that's my _each and every action_ for the past month."

"It's not what you think, I promise," Arthur said, scrambling to his feet and approaching where Francis stood.

Francis took a step back, shaking his head. "What's with you?" he said, the volume of his voice rising. "You've been treating me like a bomb about to go off for days, always asking if I'm alright and then acting like you don't believe me, _and then this_–"

"No, I swear that I can explain it!" Arthur said, nearly shouting in order to be heard over Francis's increasingly-angry rant. This was bad… He didn't know what to say to calm him down, and if he couldn't stop this argument soon then there was no guarantee that he'd ever be able to explain it.

"You think I'm crazy, then? You think I'm just going to try to off myself at any given moment, so you record _fucking everything… _No, you know what?" Francis said, a tone of tired finality in his voice. "That's enough. Honestly, I thought you were better than this." He looked down at the book in contempt. "I get that you're worried and everything, but there's absolutely no reason–" He stopped, turning his gaze up to Arthur at long last.

Arthur cringed, the uncharacteristically cold look in Francis's eyes stopping him in his tracks. "No, you don't understand," he said, his voice shaking as he tried to make himself heard.

"You're right, I don't." Francis narrowed his eyes. "I honestly thought you were better than this, but you're just another looney. Don't you trust me at all?"

"I can explain if you just listen," he repeated, reaching out to catch Francis's wrist in an attempt to stop him from leaving.

Francis shook his hand out of Arthur's grasp. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Arthur," he said quietly, avoiding his gaze. When he opened the door, Antonio was standing outside with his hand raised to knock and with a disgruntled look upon his face. "Just go." He took hold of Antonio's hand and muttered something to him before pulling the now puzzled man into the hallway and up the stairs.

Arthur stared at the open door for a few moments before sinking into a chair at the table. God, he was so stupid. He'd been so careful and discreet about the book, and then he'd just gone and left it in plain sight? He hadn't ever considered that Francis might find it, or what to do if he did. The book wasn't even on the table anymore; Francis had taken it with him, then.

It looked like his two options were to sit here and wait for him to come back, or to go out and look for him. He'd gotten too far to give up now without another word.

Something was going to happen soon according to the book, that was for certain. And Arthur's chances of preventing whatever it was would go down to nearly zero if Francis cut him off completely. He had to make things right before it was too late.

Arthur stood up and unpinned a slip of paper from the wall beside the door. He took note of the room number beside Antonio's name before stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind him.

Antonio's apartment room was on the next floor up and at the front of the building. He remembered how Antonio had waved to them from the third-floor window when they had first arrived.

He hardly needed to know the room number to know which room was his. Arthur could hear voices as he drew nearer to the door. "Hello?" he said, knocking against the doorframe.

The talking stopped, and then Arthur could hear Francis's voice muffled through the door, a steady stream of French that sounded hushed and urgent. Antonio responded to what he had said, and then the two became silent once more.

"Francis, I hear you in there," he said, knocking again. "Come out, okay? I can explain, I promise."

There was silence once again. It didn't sound like anyone was moving to open the door. Arthur tried the doorknob. Locked. "Please just listen to me."

"I don't want to talk to you right now," came Francis's voice, sounding tired.

Arthur took a shuddering breath, trying to think of some way to convince him to listen. But as soon as he started to speak, Francis interrupted once more.

"I'm serious," he said. "You can't be here right now. Please just go away."

Arthur took a step back from the door. It wasn't any use. He wouldn't put it past Francis to call the police or something if Arthur tried to explain now. He understood why that was, but that didn't make it any less frustrating. He knew he'd sound completely insane if he started shouting through the door about magic and fate. And if Francis didn't stop him, then Antonio might.

He started back down the stairs, stopping when he passed the door to Francis's room. He wasn't quite thinking straight, but he supposed it was better to wait somewhere else for the time being. After grabbing his jacket from the hook, he set off.

Back in the street in front of the boulangerie, he began to wonder whether or not waiting in front of the building was a good idea. The temperature was dropping fast despite the optimistically warmer conditions of the day. His jacket was the only bit of heavy clothing that he had with him at the moment. In his slightly-dazed state, he began to wander down the street in search of a bar he remembered passing during his angry walk the night before. Even if he wasn't able to communicate well with its patrons, it would be a warmer place to wait until Francis calmed down. If he ever did.

His mind was nearly blank as he walked along the edge of the street. Not a single thought in his head seemed deserving of his time, and he found himself stopped outside of the bar before he knew it.

He was met with the scent of alcohol and smoke as he pushed open the door. After taking a moment to get his bearings, he maneuvered between the many small tables that were scattered around the room and took a seat at the bar. The room was hardly any brighter than the street outside, lit simply by tiny hanging lamps above the tables. There were only a few other people nearby, a fact for which Arthur was thankful.

A bartender came over to him on the other side of the bar and uttered something that Arthur didn't understand.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand French," Arthur said, wishing that he had thought to try to pick up a little of the language in his free time.

"I said, can I get you something?" the bartender repeated in a thickly-accented voice.

"Oh, thanks," said Arthur with relief. He looked across the bar at the variety of alcohol bottles lined up along the wall. "I'll have a soda to start," he decided. "Something clear-colored, please." Though the wine the day before hadn't led to disaster, he surely didn't want to be dizzy, unclear, or worse if Francis–

He squinted his eyes shut, leaning his chin in his hand as the bartender left to fetch his drink. His mind had been devoid of those thoughts on his way there, but everything was rushing back once he had time to think again.

What the hell was he supposed to do now? Francis thought he was an absolute nutcase, and there wasn't much else that he could do about that right now unless he decided to let him explain. And right now, that didn't seem likely for a while. How would he explain it if he ever did get the chance? He couldn't just say that there was a magic book that dictated that his life was nearly over, and it was by way of this book that Arthur had been keeping track of him for weeks. Nothing about that explanation sounded even remotely believable.

Arthur sighed. The truth truly was stranger than fiction.

The bartender set a glass of clear soda before him, and Arthur dug into the pocket of his jacket for a few Euros but found none. The only thing that he felt in his pocket was a mobile phone. It was strange to find it there… He'd taken to leaving his mobile at the apartment since it didn't receive service, so he couldn't think of a reason why it was there now. He went through the pocket of his jeans and took out his wallet before placing a few Euros on the table.

When the bartender had left once again, Arthur pulled the mobile phone from his pocket and set it on the table. And suddenly, it made sense.

It wasn't his phone, but Francis's. And on closer inspection, the jacket that he was currently wearing didn't belong to him either. He must have taken the wrong one down from the coat hook in his haste to leave the apartment. That was sure to get him into more trouble later.

Arthur scrolled through the contacts, hesitating on Antonio's name. He could call them. Would that do any good, though? If they were already upset with him, then that would only make it worse. If Francis went back to the room tonight, he'd realize that it was missing and call him if he wanted to. At least, Arthur hoped that he would. But the book was already so short; did they even have that sort of time?

He took a sip of his soda and looked back at the wall of drinks lined up behind the bar. It was starting to look more enticing every minute.

* * *

It was two in the morning before anything else happened.

A few beers had freed him up enough to begin ranting to the bartender, who was actually a rather nice guy but looked as though he only understood about half of what Arthur was saying. Arthur's thoughts were swimming and he'd started to cry multiple times over the past half-hour for various reasons. Now he just felt dizzy and drowsy and only wanted to go back to the apartment. The bartender had gone off to clean tables and left Arthur alone in the otherwise empty room.

Arthur had just laid his head down on the bar to rest when the mobile phone lit up beside him in notice of a text message. Antonio's name flashed across the screen.

Arthur unlocked the phone immediately and cleared his muddled mind enough to read the message: _Where are you? _

He quickly typed back: _Francis? _

The answer was sent almost immediately: _Yes._

Arthur felt suddenly nervous as he replied: _The bar nearby_. Was he giving him another chance to explain?

His response came in as quickly as the first had: _I'm on my way_.

Arthur stood up from the stool and felt a little bit sick as he gained his balance. He'd meet Francis on the way there so they could get home and sort this out more quickly. Saying a quick "merci" to the bartender, he pinned a ten Euro note beneath one of his glasses and made for the door.

The cold air hit him like a wall as he stumbled into the street. He realized with disappointment that there was ice on the ground again, and he made a conscious effort not to slip. He hadn't had an awful lot to drink, just enough to ease his thoughts and screw up his depth perception a bit. All that he had to do was keep walking, and then he'd get back to the apartment, and then he'd figure out how to explain everything to Francis, and–

"Arthur?"

Arthur looked up from the ground that he had been focusing so hard on. Francis was standing before him, looking as if he were caught between wanting to rush forward to hug him or stay where he was. Arthur had noticed earlier, but it seemed more pronounced now in the shadows cast by the streetlamp – he looked worse now than he had the morning after the party.

"How did you do that?" he asked, his eyes betraying what looked strangely like distress.

"Do what?" Arthur said, worried by Francis's expression. "I just walked out, you didn't tell me to stay in the bar or anything."

Francis narrowed his eyes before stepping forward and pulling one of Arthur's arms over his shoulder. "We're going to get your drunk ass home, and then you're going to answer my questions."

"I'm not drunk," Arthur argued. That was the truth, and yet he didn't object to Francis's support. He was reminded of the week before, but in reverse; instead of Arthur holding Francis's weight as he helped him to safety, it was the other way around. Not as drastic this time, of course. He found himself thinking that life was so much easier when the two of them were the same height.

The trip back to the apartment passed in silence, Francis wearing the same stony expression and Arthur trying too hard not to slip on the icy ground that seemed to be moving too fast to keep track of.

Arthur immediately crashed on the bed once they were safely inside the apartment, but Francis sat him back up again. "I need you to tell me what's going on," Francis said, a hint of barely-concealed urgency in his voice. He put the notebook between the two of them on the bed and flipped to the back page. "I thought you were playing a trick and that it was invisible ink or something," he said, pointing to the bottom of the page. "That's impossible. You couldn't have known the time."

Beneath where Francis was pointing, there was a new entry a few lines above the bottom of the page.

January 31st – 21:09

_Argument with Courier._

"Nine PM," he muttered. "That's right when we started arguing." He searched Arthur's eyes. "Just tell me what is going on, because I don't understand. And, to tell the truth, it's frightening."

Arthur crawled away from him and lay his head against his pillow, waiting for the dizzy feeling to subside. He needed to tell Francis the truth; he hoped that he wouldn't be turned away with talk of magic and fate, but it was the only explanation that would have any shred of verity to it. After their falling-out that afternoon, he hoped Francis would be able to trust him.

Francis lay beside him, absently flipping through the book as he listened to Arthur speak.

He told the whole story, from the day he received the book to this very moment, leaving nothing out and hoping that his slightly-intoxicated speech made sense. He told him about his grandfather's speculation about Francis that turned out to be true, and about how everything had fallen into place the night that he had driven Francis home from the party. Francis listened with the same look on his face: not one of disbelief, but of resignation.

When Arthur had finished, silence fell between them. Arthur wondered what he was thinking right about now. Would he believe him and accept the explanation? Or would he call him a quack and refuse to see him anymore?

"You're asking me to believe in magic and fate," Francis murmured, looking down at the book. "I've never believed in anything of the sort before. I can't accept this."

"It's the truth," Arthur said. "I know it's hard to trust me in something like this, especially when everything you know goes against it. I had a hard time believing it at first, too." He laced his fingers over his chest. "But I wouldn't lie to you about something like this. Not anymore, at least. I can't."

Silence once more. And then, "What time is it?"

Arthur looked over at the analogue clock beside the bed. "Two forty-nine AM."

Francis sat up, shaking his head in resignation and passing the book over to him.

Beneath the entry about the argument, there were new words.

February 1st, 02:49

_Reconciliation_.

"I believe you," Francis said quietly, looking down at the quilt covering the bed.

Arthur sat up and moved the book aside so that he could move closer and hold Francis's hands in his. This next part would be the hardest to break to him. He didn't want to be the one to say it. "There's something else," he said, averting his gaze.

Francis's grasp grew tighter, but only for a second. "Yes?"

He took a shaky breath before continuing. "The night that Feliciano and I came to get you from the party, there was one single blank page left in the book. And when the three of us arrived back at my flat that night, there were more. It was full of empty pages." He looked up to meet his eyes. "And that's how it stayed until last night. Something changed."

Francis looked away. "That's why you kept asking," he said.

"It's not that I didn't trust you," Arthur continued. "But the book hasn't been wrong so far. I had to know if you were planning on trying that again, or if this is something that is out of our hands this time."

Francis had a sort of sad smile upon his lips. "I wasn't planning on it," he said. "My time must be up."

"But there may be a way around it," Arthur told him. "There was last time. I was able to stop it then, and I may be able to–"

"Arthur, wait," Francis said, the little smile ever-present. "You don't need to stop it." He looked up again. "I guess I've been waiting for something like this."

Arthur groaned, shaking his head. "Don't go down this path again," he said, not breaking eye contact for once. If Francis was talking like that, there was no way that he'd have the will to pull through if something were to happen.

Francis looked a bit uncomfortable. "I hope you realize that thoughts like that don't just go away, even if I have you there to help chase them out." His grip tightened on Arthur's hands. "They're still there. And if we can't do anything about the book, then that's alright. I'm ready."

"Don't talk like that," he said, a hint of alarm creeping into his voice. "I'm saying that there's a chance that we can stop it, so don't think such things, alright?"

Francis shook his head noncommittally.

Arthur bit his lip, wondering if he should continue. It wasn't necessarily something Francis needed to know. "Listen," he started, looking down at their hands. "Something like this has happened before. I told you about Alfred, right?" After a nod from Francis, he continued. "He died because I was selfish and wasn't paying attention, and I'm sure as hell not going to sit around and watch that happen again if there's a way to stop it. I'm not just going to let you die."

"That's some motive." There was a faraway look in Francis's eyes and he didn't respond right away. "Alright," he said, before leaning in and giving Arthur a quick kiss.

Arthur felt his cheeks heat, even more than they had been from the alcohol. "And that was because…?"

"If I've only got a day left, I'm not going to waste it," he said, smiling as he let go of Arthur's hands. "And I'm not going to sleep all morning, of course. Let's go to sleep, alright?"

A few minutes later, Arthur settled in as Francis set the book on the table and turned out the light. When Francis put his arms around him, he didn't protest in the slightest. After another kiss, they said what may be the last "goodnight" they would share.

It was another hour at least before Arthur felt himself drifting off. Despite the alcohol in his system, he couldn't stop the thoughts from racing through his mind long enough to let him rest. The flippant way that Francis considered his own demise was disconcerting, to say the least. Was there really no way to change the outcome of the book? After all he'd been through, Francis didn't deserve that.

Part of him wished that he had been able to get some rest at the bar earlier. But if that had been the case, he wouldn't be here now with a new understanding and no animosity between him and Francis. And at this moment, he wouldn't trade that for anything.

Francis's breathing was too quick for him to be truly asleep. Arthur could understand that. He could only imagine what it must be like to know that a night was possibly your last on Earth. He wondered what Francis had been thinking during the nights leading up to the party the week before.

There had to be something that they could do to stop it. There had to be. If not, then the unfairness of life had outdone itself this time around.

This time, they had an advantage. The last time that Arthur had dealt with this, he had been caught unaware and was made to sit on the outside and watch as everything fell apart. But this time, they had the benefit of foresight. They'd been granted this gift.

And hell knew he was going to use it.


	14. Chapter 14

Arthur hardly got any sleep that night. When he did sleep, he'd jolt awake just to find that he'd only been out for a couple of minutes. And then the troubled thoughts would return once more. Resigned to the fact that it would be hours before he'd be able to rest, he lay staring up at the ceiling with the television on low to fill the stifling silence.

It seemed like Francis wouldn't wake for hours once he'd finally fallen asleep. Except for a quiet cough here and there, he seemed fully at peace. Arthur was afraid of waking him; at this moment, he would find more comfort in dreams than in reality. So he sat in silence, running his hands gently through the ends of Francis's soft hair as the room filled with light from the television.

He didn't know what to do. The stakes were too high to take things as they happened, and he hardly trusted himself to discern right from wrong when the time came. He had to have some sort of plan. But no matter how much he concentrated, the book refused to reveal any secrets that it may have held. He was left back at square one without any idea of what to expect.

Though events were seeming to repeat themselves, the only difference between the two incidents was one that he came to detest more and more as the never-ending night wore on.

The night before Alfred had died, the two of them had stayed up too late together playing one of those video games that Arthur had always found ornery but that Alfred enjoyed to no end. They'd retired to the couch to read – Arthur's choice of activity after Alfred's – once Arthur gave up after losing round after round. Alfred had been determined not to let him concentrate, instead pausing to exchange little kisses between paragraphs.

There hadn't been a single troubling thought in their minds that evening, save for the lingering reminder that Alfred would be on his way back to the United States sooner than they would like. But at that moment, it was nothing more than a problem that they would face when time ran out. They were simply focusing on the quiet togetherness that made up that evening.

But now, as Arthur watched the minutes crawl by on the analog clock beside the bed, the only thing that he could think about was how this would all soon be cut short. There was a good chance that Francis would be dead by this time the next evening.

Arthur ran his fingers through Francis's hair once more, reveling in the feeling of the soft locks across his hands. After all, this would be the last time that he would have the chance to do so.

This man who had pissed him off so badly after their first meeting, calling him ridiculous pet names and insulting his intelligence on the balcony of the art building, now meant more to Arthur than he could have imagined before. He hadn't truly realized that until he'd seen the book at its end for a second time. He'd hated everything about Francis upon meeting him, and that hadn't changed until the coffee date on that cold January morning weeks before. Up until then, he'd wanted nothing to do with Francis's flirtatious manner and harsh criticisms.

But his perceptions had quickly changed.

When Arthur had had Feliciano drive him to the inner-city apartment building, he'd been trying so hard because he was afraid of history repeating itself. He didn't want to have blood on his hands if the same thing were to happen again. And when he promised his grandfather that he'd do his best to change the outcome, he'd had the same goal in mind.

All of this time, he'd been assured that he could emotionally detach himself enough so that he'd be able to finish his task and walk away without another death under his name.

Their time spent together had distorted this objective to a point where Arthur had subconsciously convinced himself that he was still on track. And he had been, for a time. He'd managed to keep his distance so as not to become over-involved. But then, after the party, something new had arisen.

He'd started off with nothing more than a sense of duty. He'd been tasked with this job, so it was simply his problem to deal with. Funny how that all worked out.

And then he'd agreed to go to Paris and neglect all of his responsibilities back home for an entire week; when he made that decision, the book had been at its peak of blank pages. He'd figured that things were beginning to go smoothly at long last. He could only imagine what would have happened if he'd woken up in London one morning to find that the book was at its end once more and there was now an ocean between them.

Things between the two of them had changed the most since they arrived in France. Their conversations became more meaningful and there was no longer the air of formality between them that had previously prevented them from breaching the gap to familiarity. And then, after days of increasing closeness and the surprisingly open atmosphere created by Francis's presence, Arthur found that he had started to depend on his presence as well. He appreciated his willingness to listen, to change the subject as often as necessary, to offer assistance even when Francis himself was the one who probably needed it more than he did.

He'd proved to him that second chances did exist. He'd showed that many times over. And even if it had just been through a few simple kisses, he'd been someone to love and be loved by. That was a change to their relationship that he accepted graciously.

Did Francis really not want him to try to prevent this? Even if he didn't want him to, Arthur couldn't just sit by and not try. They'd been through too much to just give up. And honestly, if it wasn't so impractical due to school and work and family, Arthur would have greatly considered the offer to move in and split the rent. Though his speech and actions leading up to this point said otherwise, he wouldn't hate having Francis as a flatmate.

Hopefully, they'd be able to talk seriously about that when all of this was over for good.

Arthur brought his hands to his temples in an attempt to clear his mind. He'd promised himself that he wasn't going to cry again after that moment of distress at the bar, but he was too tired now to even let that happen. With a sigh, he turned off the television and lay down once more, slipping an arm around Francis's waist before closing his eyes again.

A fine time to realize just how much he'd miss this if he failed.

* * *

"Honestly, if you're just trying to find something to pin all of this on…"

Arthur had been fretting over Francis's increasing illness all throughout their walk to the café that morning. Francis had woken up with more severe coughing than the days before, and Arthur hadn't backed off in his attempts to get him to do something about it. "You can't deny that it's getting worse. We could get Antonio to bring you to the hospital, or–"

"Come on, Arthur, a cold isn't going to kill me." He grabbed the salt shaker away from Arthur, who was once again spinning it in circles on the tabletop. "Gracious, stop making a mess. The others are going to be here any minute."

"I'll try not to make a fool of myself this time," Arthur muttered, begrudgingly sweeping the spilled salt onto the floor just as Emma joined them at their little table. They'd managed to secure the spot beside the foggy window, the one with the best view of the frozen street and sky and where they could enjoy the sense of open air without dealing with the impending cold.

"What are you so nervous about?" Francis asked, reaching for Arthur's hand when the latter spent most of the conversation gazing vacantly into his coffee cup.

"Well _that_'s a loaded question, isn't it?" Arthur snapped back.

"Now's not a good time to do that defensive thing you always do," Francis told him. "I would be worrying as well, but you're panicking enough for both of us." As if to spite him, he ended the sentence in a cough muffled against the sleeve of his jacket.

"I'm not _panicking_. I'm trying to think of a plan because at least _one of us_ needs to be concerned for your well-being, and it's obvious that you're not making any effort at… Are you even listening?"

Francis had long since stopped paying attention, instead focusing on greeting Antonio to the table. Arthur grumbled a complaint, but didn't try to get his attention again.

"That's really not what it is, don't worry," Francis said a few sentences later.

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Come again?" The other two were looking on in confusion.

Francis sighed, bringing a hand to his forehead. "Dammit, wrong person," he muttered. "_C'est pas comme ça; n'enquietez pas_," he directed at Emma and Antonio. Then, to Arthur, "Antonio's had to come down to our room twice these past few days because of our arguing. He seems to think we're having some sort of domestic."

"That's ridiculous, we're not even together," Arthur replied, suddenly very aware of his hand clasped in Francis's on the tabletop between them.

"I thought we sort of are," he said with a small smile on his lips.

Arthur really had to learn to control his blushing impulse. Was that really what he thought? He couldn't deny that their actions recently had made their relationship lean far more towards "couple" rather than "friends." But paired with their constant arguing that sometimes led to full-blown verbal fights, it made for a strange dynamic. But if they couldn't change the book's prediction, then Arthur would be glad that he was happy with that at least. Keeping in mind all of his ponderings about this that he'd thought over the past few days, it was clear to him that at this point, no harm could come of it. On the contrary, it felt nice to have an air of officialness about it. "I suppose you're right," he settled on, reaching for the salt shaker that Francis had placed just out of reach.

Francis swatted his hand away. "No, you're not weaseling your way out of the conversation this time."

"But I don't speak–"

Francis turned his attention to Emma and spoke a few words; Emma in turn smiled and dug through her purse before pulling out a tattered deck of cards. Francis let go of Arthur's hand in order to pick up the deck, the worn cards bending at the centers as if they'd weathered years of use as he shuffled them. "Do you know how to play a game called _Trouduc_?"

It took a while for Arthur to grasp the rules of the game, but he found himself having a surprisingly good time as the four of them took turns placing cards on the pile. The game was played almost entirely in French, of course, but he picked up the pronunciation of the numbers almost immediately and was able to announce his cards as well as the rest of them. Occasionally, they would get too wrapped up in the game and forget the common language – Emma would shout "Boer!" or Antonio would announce "cuatros," and, more often than not, Arthur would forget the names of the face cards altogether and neglect to say anything at all when it was his turn to place one on the table.

"Jacks are _Valets_, Arthur," Francis reminded him for what must have been the fifth time.

Though their speech was limited to numbers and interjections of "_bon travail_"s and "_je te déteste_"s alike, Arthur couldn't remember the last time that he'd had this much fun in a group.

Emma and Francis split the wins almost evenly, while Antonio and Arthur shared the common fate of miserable failure. They spent their down time flicking discarded cards across the table at each other as the other two settled round after round themselves.

Manners were forgotten and scorecards tossed aside as the skill hierarchy arranged itself, Antonio constantly motioning to them to keep their voices down so as not to bother anyone else. That hardly seemed possible given the fact that they were each investing far too much thought and effort into this battle to give a damn.

It was the first time that Arthur had felt truly included with them since he'd arrived in Paris. The language barrier wasn't an excuse anymore – there was a constant air of mutual appreciation of each other between all four of them, no matter how much they really spoke. It felt like an honor he didn't deserve, but the smiles and laughter around the table, things that he had grown so unaccustomed to recently, assured him that he was right where he should be.

It was so easy to forget what they were supposed to be focusing on.

* * *

_Expect two updates next weekend._

_For anyone who's interested, Trouduc is the French version of Rich Man Poor Man (aka: President, Capitalism, Dai Hin Min, Arsehole, etc.) and it is the best game ever created. _


	15. Chapter 15

They left the café hours after they entered, the pack of cards stowed back in Emma's purse as they made their way down the street with no particular destination in mind. Arthur was just glad that they weren't taking the narrow road that he'd so often found himself walking in a fit of despair these past few nights.

He glanced over at Francis, who was now gesturing wildly and speaking a mile a minute, seeming to tell a story that the other two were finding amusing. Arthur smiled; though he didn't understand their speech, it was good to see everyone happy. He couldn't imagine why that had upset him so much the first day they had stayed for lunch at the café. He'd never reach their levels of friendliness.

Arthur prepared tea back at the apartment, more out of formality than necessity seeing as they had just returned from the coffee outing. Emma had left them at the door so that she could depart for work. Arthur and Antonio waited at the top of the stairs as Francis said goodbye, the former feeling the slightest bit intrusive as they looked on.

Emma began with a somewhat embarrassed expression, but that look changed to one of concern as Francis continued talking. Beside Arthur, Antonio was also sporting somewhat of a frown as the two of them listened in. And then Emma leaned in to kiss Francis's cheek, muttering what sounded like an assurance before giving him a cautious smile and shouting goodbye over her shoulder as she stepped into the street.

"What just happened?" Arthur asked as Francis came back up the stairs to meet them.

"Just a quick goodbye," he said, then frowned. "Come on, don't look at me like that."

"She looked worried, Francis."

"Well it would have been even worse if I hadn't said anything, seeing how things are progressing."

Arthur pursed his lips. "I thought I said–"

"I know what you said. It's just a precaution. You understand that, right?"

He supposed it made sense. He didn't want to bring it up again, but Francis's complete empathy and lack of trust in him was astounding.

"On second thought," Francis said, "I'll be back momentarily." And with that, he was stepping down the stairs once more in complete ignorance of Arthur's protests.

"Don't be giving up just yet, you dolt," Arthur called after him as one last sentiment.

Francis gave a noncommittal wave over his shoulder before disappearing from sight.

Antonio shrugged and retired once more to Francis's apartment room, and Arthur followed a moment later. There wasn't anything to be gained from waiting at the top of the stairs other than wasting a grand amount of time.

Arthur poured tea for the two of them and promptly succeeding in burning himself after attempting to drink before it had a chance to cool. He supposed that anything was better than sitting in complete silence with a near-stranger once again, but it definitely didn't help.

Arthur cleared the space in front of him on the table and rested his chin in his hands. Antonio seemed to be a fun, interesting person, to say the least; but now, he was gazing into his mug of tea and tapping a pen against the tabletop in a show of nerves.

He'd had it with taking the language barrier for granted after seeing that Antonio and Emma were exceedingly friendly and willing to try to speak in any way they could. The card game earlier proved to be a sufficient means of communication despite the language situation. There had to be another way they could carry on a conversation.

"Antonio?" he said after a bit of thought.

Antonio looked up, a bit startled. "Y-Yes?" he replied, not seeming to believe that Arthur had actually spoken to him.

Arthur thought for a moment, and then pulled his laptop towards him and opened a basic translation program. _Is this understandable? _he typed, before hitting the "translate" button and turning the screen towards Antonio.

He grinned as he read it, pulling the laptop closer and typing in his own text and translating it as well. _A little. How are you? _

Arthur couldn't help but smile as he typed his response.

Why he hadn't considered this earlier was a mystery. Maybe he could attribute that to having had too much going on at once, but now that didn't really matter; he was just glad that it was working well.

They exchanged little messages back and forth, the atmosphere growing lighter as they laughed over unclear translations and stumbled over the pronunciations of the words. Antonio had a magnificent accent in English despite seeing the words for the first time on the screen, but Arthur could tell that he himself was butchering the French text nearly beyond recognition. So many silent letters and soft r's to deal with. He really wondered why he hadn't at least tried to get a grasp on the language before now. Maybe he'd ask Francis for some pointers later.

And speaking of which…

He and Antonio had just finished cracking up over a particularly confusing translation ("That's definitely not the word I was looking for, where the hell did that come from?") when the room filled with a comfortable silence. Comfortable, that is, until Arthur began to wonder what was taking Francis so long. It was starting to worry him. He'd assumed it would only be a minute before he returned, but thinking back on it, it had been a bad idea to split up like that while Arthur was still trying to make a plan.

Arthur didn't want to kill the relaxed atmosphere that they had created; however, now that he was considering Francis and his plight, it was hard to think of anything else. He typed a quick message for Antonio. _Francis may need some help soon. Could you drive us to the hospital when he returns?_

Antonio shot a concerned glance across the table at him before typing a response. _What is past? _it read.

The translation was off, but Arthur understood the meaning. And at this point, it would be easier to put it in simpler terms rather than attempt to explain the truth through a shitty translator. _He is sick_, he typed. That was believable enough in itself. He'd indeed been dealing with that cold of his, and even though Francis had assured him it was no cause for alarm, it was reason to base it on.

_It is a bad sickness?_ came Antonio's immediate response.

Arthur nodded and typed, _Francis won't want to go, but it is important_, into the box.

Antonio had barely begun to read the message when the door swung open. Francis hung up his jacket on the coat hook and took a seat beside Antonio as Arthur confronted him.

"I was about to go looking for you," Arthur said, shooting him a questioning look.

Francis rolled his eyes. "Of course you were," he muttered. "I appreciate your concern, but I'm obviously fine. But I may have talked too much, because–" He stopped, taking a closer look at the computer screen. "Wait a moment, where will I not want to go?"

Arthur stood and fetched his jacket. "The hospital," he said. He'd expected that it would be difficult to make him agree to come with them, but he was sure to see reason. He picked up Francis's recently discarded jacket and tossed it to him.

Francis tossed it back, and Arthur barely had time to catch it before it hit the floor. "I'm not going."

"Alright, I get that you're covering up your fear with this stubborn façade of yours–"

"I'm not–"

"–but this is ridiculous," Arthur said, intent on not letting him get a word in. "That cover-up's not going to get you anywhere this time, no matter how much you think it's worked in the past."

Francis was quiet for a moment. "If this really is my final day, like you keep saying, then I want to spend it here," he said at long last.

Arthur didn't answer right away. He was trying to keep his gaze away from both of them, especially Antonio, who was looking beyond startled at the heated argument that had sprung up before him. "If you come with us, there's more of a chance that this won't be your last day," Arthur explained. "If something does happen, at least we'll be at a hospital. That's the best outcome that we can hope for, isn't it?"

The room was unnaturally still. Arthur wished someone would say something – he'd been wrong in the past, but this time he was sure that this was what needed to happen. If they could set things up to their advantage, there would be more chance of pulling through whatever events were going to transpire. Francis just had to agree to it.

Francis sighed before walking towards Arthur and taking his jacket back from him. "You're insufferable," he muttered, pulling the jacket on and giving a short glare to Arthur.

Arthur couldn't stop the look of relief from flooding his face. "Thank God you're actually going to listen to reason this time," he said, taking Francis's hands. "We'll come back as soon as more pages show up. That's bound to happen once we arrive, right? I mean, it would technically be setting things up in a way that would prolong–"

"Fine, whatever," said Francis, casting his eyes down.

Arthur's smile faltered. Francis really wanted to stay that badly... but he couldn't give in. "We'll be back soon," he assured him once more before leading him out into the hallway.

Playing it safe was the right way to go. Of this, he was certain. There wasn't any way to know what would happen and when, but this would give them an advantage. There was no way they'd miss the opportunity to add pages with everything set up as it was.

They sped along the icy freeway in Antonio's little car, Arthur sharing the back seat with Francis and flipping through the pages of the notebook every few minutes. No change yet. He glanced over at Francis, trying to get a feel for what he was thinking.

Though Francis had seemed nonchalant about the situation earlier, he'd grown more tense since they'd gotten into the car. He had his forehead to the glass of the window and was gazing out at the cars they were passing in the lane beside them. Every once in a while, Antonio would say something to him, to which he would consistently respond with only a few words.

"It'll be fine," Arthur said. He offered a hand to Francis.

Francis took it gratefully, looking as if he wanted to say something. A moment later, though, he turned back to look out the window. "This is so strange," he said after a while of silence. "If this is something that's supposed to happen, then I…" He trailed off, seeming to try to find the right words. "I already said that I'm alright with it, and that hasn't changed. It's just strange to know and not be able to do anything."

"We _are_ able to, though," Arthur repeated, for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. "I already told you in detail how it's possible. But if you don't put energy into wanting to change it, nothing will change. So enough of that depressing talk, alright?"

"I've already made it clear to you that even if we're able to avoid the worst outcome, I don't have much else going for me right now. As far as that's all concerned, I honestly don't care at this point." Francis propped up his chin on his hand beside the window.

Arthur leaned back against the headrest to look up at the car's ceiling. "I care."

"I know."

After minutes more of silence, Antonio spoke a few more words to Francis. Francis responded in that same short manner that he had been speaking in the whole time.

"Once this is all over, we'll head home," Arthur repeated in an attempt to lift his spirits. "It'll be–"

He never had a chance to finish his sentence.

There was a shout from Antonio in the front seat. A cacophony of screeching tires and blaring car horns filled Arthur's ears. Antonio was stepping on the breaks to no avail, the rear windshield of the car ahead of them fast approaching through the glass.

Time seemed so slow as the wheels spun out. After all they'd been through, _this_ was what was going to be the event that ruined all of it? Arthur hardly had time to brace himself against the seat in front of him before the wheels spun out on the ice.

The impact came in a sudden lurch accompanied by the crunch of metal on metal and shattering glass. A haze seemed to fill his mind as the stench of gasoline crept up around them. And then, aside from the continued blaring of horns outside, all was silent once more. The clicking of the car's emergency lights ticked through the quiet air as Arthur opened his eyes. He was afraid of what he would find.

"Good lord…" Arthur hazarded a look around. Francis's eyes were tightly shut and he seemed to be shaking, but he was otherwise unharmed. He couldn't help but let out a breathy laugh upon the realization that, thankfully, the three of them had come out unscathed. Antonio was trying to work around the airbag in the front seat, no more worse for wear than the other two.

"Francis, it's alright," Arthur said, his voice trembling after the shock.

Francis let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging in relief. "A coincidence, then," he muttered. "I was sure that…"

"So was I," said Arthur when Francis didn't continue. He looked out the window to where Antonio was now talking with the driver ahead of them. "Do you suppose we should help out?"

"Perhaps." Francis gazed around distractedly. "Too much traffic on this side, could you move over a–"

There was a shout from outside. Antonio, who had left the other driver behind, was darting back to the car at top speed and shouting something with an unequivocal expression of fear.

Arthur felt a burst of hot panic and he tossed off his seatbelt and fumbled with the door handle, not needing the translation that Francis shouted over his shoulder. "Get out, now!" Something horrible must have happened up ahead to give Antonio a look of such distress. Had someone in one of the cars ahead of them been injured?

He didn't have time to wonder, because Francis was reaching around him to pull on the handle of the door and shouting something through the window. Francis's tone struck him with immediate fright. Something was gravely wrong. And, by the sounds of the frantic shouting around him, he knew it was about to get worse.

Antonio reached the door before Arthur could find the handle and swung it open. He grabbed Arthur roughly by the front of the shirt before pulling him towards the divider with all his strength.

Arthur's forehead hit the icy pavement as there was a tremendous crash behind him. He rolled onto his back, his head spinning. It felt as if his mind was full of fog, and spots were swimming in his sight. Antonio was beside him, his breathing strained and his eyes wide in shock.

The back seat of the car had been thoroughly totaled, fully crushed in a second, more powerful impact with a van that had followed them to what was now nothing more than a rubble heap along the side of the freeway. The reason Antonio had pulled the two of them out of the car.

A cold feeling sank into Arthur's chest as he sat up, pressing a hand to his forehead against a sudden headache.

The only one beside him was Antonio.

Francis was nowhere to be seen.


	16. Chapter 16

_TW: blood/injury_

* * *

Arthur sat rooted to the spot, breath catching in his chest and ice-covered asphalt stinging the palms of his hands. Shouts echoed all around him in a never-ending alarm of words that held no meaning. The stream of vehicles never ceased or slowed, now existing only as a blurry backdrop for the grim spectacle.

Francis hadn't left the car, the entire back seat of which had crumpled upon impact. Part of him wanted to rush into the scene, to make sure Francis was alright, to help him to the side of the road and hold onto him and not let go until all of this was sorted out. But he was held back by the tiny portion of his mind that knew that all of his careful planning had gone to hell in a single moment.

His legs protested as he pulled himself shakily to his feet. Blinking didn't help in clearing the dizziness from his mind or the blurriness from his eyes. He stumbled toward the car, a cold fear taking hold of him as he gripped the already-open door for support.

In reflection, he would realize that he should have called for an ambulance immediately before crawling once more into the back seat. But his mind was swimming, not allowing a single logical thought to surface from the ocean of mental fallacies. All he could think about was getting to Francis, hoping against all hope that he'd somehow avoided disaster.

When he looked into the car, he immediately wished that he hadn't.

His sluggish mind took in the grave scene that awaited him. Shattered glass blanketing every surface. Francis's motionless body slumped over beside the door, blossoms of red seeping through the fabric of his jacket, his blonde hair streaked with rivulets of sanguine. The horrifyingly familiar stench of blood tainting the thin air.

It felt as if the breath had been sucked out of his lungs. The burning sensation of ice against his skin returned as he felt himself being pulled once more away from the car.

It seemed as if he were hearing everything from the end of a long tunnel, all sounds seeming to echo and fade into oblivion. Despite being in English, Arthur could hardly make sense of the words of the person who had restrained him. "Three vehicles, probably ten people involved," the man was saying in a gruff voice into the receiver of a mobile phone. "Some in shock, maybe a few concussed, one hurt bad. They – hey, settle down, the EMTs are on their way," he cut in as Arthur tried to struggle out of his grasp.

Arthur pulled hard against him, determined to work himself out of the grip of this stranger. Francis was hardly ten feet away. He had to get back to him. He hadn't even been able to tell if he was still breathing before he was pulled roughly back onto the pavement. There was still a chance that he was alive, still a miniscule prospect of hope that both of them would be able to walk away from this.

A single thought surfaced in his mind. The notebook was still under his seat in the back of the car. He knew that trying to move Francis could worsen his condition, but if he could reach the book… At least they could be prepared, for better or for worse.

He shook his wrist away from the man on the phone and lunged at the door, barely catching himself on the frame as he squinted his eyes shut against the pounding in his head. And there it was, a leather-bound corner visible just beneath the seat. He grabbed it and clutched it to his chest before raising his gaze once more.

Francis hadn't moved in the slightest.

Arthur held his breath against the thick air as he cautiously reached a hand out. His mind was filled with a blank nothingness. He didn't feel any fear or sadness or hope, just the numb shock of seeing him lying motionless.

"Francis, wake up," Arthur mumbled, letting a hand rest gingerly against Francis's wrist. Still very warm. Was that a good thing? Finding him cold would have surely been worse. "Can you hear me? Francis, listen up, don't do this…"

Arthur was still muttering to himself when he was pulled from the car for a third time. The man who'd been on the phone earlier seemed to be speaking to him, although Arthur couldn't focus on exactly what he was saying. His head was pounding and his stomach hurt, and for god's sake, his best friend was who knew how close to death _and they were just sitting here uselessly on the ice_.

"I said, do you understand?" the man was saying in that same gruff voice. "You speak English? Swedish? _Talar du svenska_? Cause if not, can't help ya."

Arthur nodded weakly. He wished the man would quiet down.

"You stay away from that car, hear?" He leaned in closer and lowered his voice when Arthur winced again. "You keep messing around over there, you're gonna mess things up more. You've gotta leave it all to the EMTs."

Arthur nodded again, his mouth dry. He lifted a hand to his stinging forehead and was hit with a wave of nausea when his fingertips came back red.

"Hey, you feelin' alright? You got a concussion? I'm a nurse, I'll help ya out. Dizzy, nauseous, headache, blurred vision…?"

Arthur clutched the book tightly against him, moving only in a constant stream of nods as his gaze searched out Antonio. He wasn't in his limited line of sight. "Who are you?" he managed, stopping the nurse in the middle of a command to count backwards.

"I told ya, a nurse," said the man, fixing Arthur with a piercing blue gaze that made him fidget from behind wire-rimmed glasses. "I'll stay with you until the medics get here. You've probably gotta go to the hospital. I'd offer you a ride, but–" He motioned at the van behind Antonio's car. "That's me. Looks like m'family and I caused trouble again."

The rest of the nurse's speech subsided into while noise. They'd all been fine until the van arrived. If it wasn't for him, they would have all ended up okay. If Francis died, this damn bastard would be the reason.

Arthur launched himself at him without a moment of coherent thought, knocking him over and swinging his fists. Accusations flew unfiltered from his lungs as the wide-eyed nurse pushed him away with an ease that didn't seem possible, but Arthur felt his arms restrained again before he could land a hit.

He slumped back against his capturer, his anger dissipating as his muddled mind tried to make sense of it all. His energy was draining by the minute. Ahead of him, a shorter blonde had knelt beside the man and was helping him to his feet as a crying young child looked on. The owner of the arms around him was whispering what sounded like a sort of chant in Spanish. A prayer.

Arthur's hands shook as he held the book before him. His numb fingers couldn't grip the pages and left red smudges as he flipped to the back. The sense of foreboding had vanished to be replaced with a cold chagrin until he reached the end.

His spirit dwindled like the wick of a burnt out candle when he turned the final page to face what he had feared.

February 1st – 17:22

_Accident._

No more lines.

No more pages.

This final, unfeeling entry marked the end.

He wanted Francis. He wanted him to be the one who he was leaning against on the side of this frozen freeway. He wanted to hold on tight and mutter assurances that everything would be alright, that he'd do everything in his power to save him.

But now, those assurances would fall on deaf ears. They'd be nothing more than the ghost of a whisper condemned to perish beside the person for whom they were meant.

In the end, it hadn't been enough.

He should have known from the beginning that it never would be.

His animosity towards the book didn't stop him from clutching its worn cover to him as he pulled his knees up to his chest. Antonio held onto him tighter, as if onto a lifeline, never ceasing his breathy mumbling. And that's how they remained until the sirens announced the arrival of the emergency vehicles that would be of little use to them now.

Arthur didn't protest as an emergency responder placed some sort of cloth against the gash on his forehead. "I don't speak French," he muttered, closing his eyes against the light after listening, unresponsive, to the stream of words he didn't understand from the woman in the medical uniform who was pressing the bandage to the wound as she knelt beside him.

"Can you sit up?" she asked, before helping him lean forward, away from the median.

The world became a confusing blur as the headache and nausea mixed with flashes of memories that he couldn't will away with even the strongest thoughts that he could muster. The vague scene before him changed from the slate gray of the street and sky to the toneless white of the back of an emergency vehicle. The burning scent of antiseptic stung at his nose and he felt the vehicle pull away from the scene of the wreck, the familiar smell dredging up memories of the last time that he was stuck in the waiting room of a hospital like the one that he was most likely headed to now. He pushed memories of Alfred out of his mind as he tried to focus on what the paramedic was saying.

"Is he alive?" he cut in, sitting up and batting away a physician who was trying to put some sort of cuff over his arm.

"Stop moving, sir." She waited until Arthur showed signs of obeying before continuing. "If you describe him, I can say to you."

Arthur jumped, startled once more by the other physician. "Um," he started, rubbing at his eyes. "Kind of tall, long hair, gray jacket with–" He stopped, feeling sick once more in remembrance of the blood. On second thought, he didn't want to hear it. The confirmation would sap away what little hope he had left.

But she was already calling in over the radio. Arthur let her, steeling himself for the words of sympathy that he knew would come next.

"He's breathing."

Arthur's eyes snapped open. "What?" he half-shouted, his voice reverberating in the small compartment and making his head spin. "_He's alive_?"

She nodded, but her face was grim. "We will do what we can do."

The sudden elation that he had felt upon her first words dissipated. Of course. The book had already told him the outcome. Though Francis was alive now, there was no telling whether or not he would pull through. And with the book closed with this newfound sense of finality, the future was dark.

Arthur sank back against a platform as instructed, his mind becoming blank once more as he began to count backwards from one hundred by threes, obedient to the orders of the medical personnel.

One hundred, ninety… six? Was ninety-six three less than one hundred? One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven… No, ninety-seven. Obviously.

The physician removed the pressure cuff that Arthur hadn't noticed was still around his arm. The lady with the radio told him that it was alright to stop counting. He didn't realize that he'd been speaking the words out loud. He leaned back and folded his arms over his stomach. It felt good to be lying down. The dizziness was more manageable.

Arthur gazed up at the wires lining the ceiling above him and vaguely tried to follow them to the corresponding machines and monitors around the vehicle. A periodic beeping sounded from a monitor beside him. A heart-rate monitor? Was it his heart he was hearing? He distractedly attempted to ask one of the paramedics, but hardly listened for the response.

He didn't know how close they were to the nearest hospital. All he knew was that it was going to feel like a long trip.

* * *

He didn't know how he'd arrived in this white-walled examination room. He must have blacked out on the way. In his delirious state, he supposed that was for the best.

He sat on the table, allowing his mind to rest as the medical examiner ran generic tests and checked for breaks and sprains. "A miracle," he'd called it when he determined that Arthur was unhurt other than the concussion. Arthur knew that more than anyone, having seen the alternative in unforgiving detail not half an hour earlier. The thought of it left him cold. He wondered where Francis was.

Arthur was transferred to a room away from the E.R. unit a bit later. The doctor was concerned by the blackouts and memory loss that he had reported, and sent him elsewhere to be monitored and to get some rest.

As he held the phone that was offered to him at this new room in the care unit, he had the sobering realization that there was no one that he could call.

Not Francis, obviously. Although he had been the first person that he thought about.

He didn't know the numbers for Antonio or Emma, and wouldn't have known what to say to them anyway.

Not his grandfather, and not his parents… He wanted to speak with his father, but he didn't want to deal with his mother's reaction yet. There was no way his father would keep it a secret long enough for Arthur to get ahold of the situation without his mother interrupting him in a panic.

He supposed that he could call Matthew, depending on what time it was in America. But then again, talk of vehicle accidents always made Matt uncomfortable, and it would be dreadful to wake him up in the middle of the night with a topic such as this.

Feliciano would be thrown into a state of alarm and begin apologizing frantically, and Arthur knew that he would have to be the one to calm him down. Lovino wouldn't care to talk to either of them once that happened.

That left one person.

The dial tone seemed to go on and on, but Arthur breathed a sigh of relief when a familiar voice broke through the static.

"_Hallo_?"

"Hey, Gil, it's Arthur. Do you have a minute?"

* * *

Each time Arthur woke, whether it be to confirm something for a doctor, sign a form, or accept a glass of water, his mind felt clearer. But with that clarity came the growing feeling of dread.

Upon request, he'd received the notebook that he had dropped in the ambulance. There hadn't been any change. For all that Arthur knew, he was waiting for nothing. He'd been promised that the doctors were doing everything they could for him, but he couldn't stop himself from believing that they were already too late.

There was a point where he'd woken up in a panic. He'd leaned against the wall and buried his face in his arms, his mind filling with a fear he hadn't had to experience since the day on the beach seven months before. It wasn't even about making sure that events didn't repeat themselves anymore. It was much more than that now. Francis had been through too much to have everything end like this. It was the last thing he deserved.

Arthur let the fear and apprehension overcome him. In his efforts to prevent all of this, he'd instigated it. It was his dumb idea to get them all in the car in the first place. Maybe it was predestined for them to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time; but either way, it was his fault. Again. The stakes were just as high now as they had been before.

It was hard to believe that he'd fucked up this badly for a second time.

He'd tried to force himself into thinking positively each time he was left shaking and terrified of what was to come, but it was getting more difficult to keep his hopes up with every minute that he waited. He didn't know whether or not he really wanted to know the answer to the question that was swirling ceaselessly through his mind. Each time a doctor came in to check on him, he was afraid they were there to break the somber news.

So when he was awoken once again by a knock at the door, he braced himself for the sympathy that he knew was coming.

But instead of words, there was just a joyous shout.

Arthur pressed his hands against his ears at the sudden noise, his healing headache making itself apparent once again. He had to steady himself against the wall as he was nearly bowled over.

"What the _hell_–"

"Arthur, I missed you!" the newcomer said, a familiar accent tinging his voice.

Arthur stopped, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. Even in the dim light he recognized the light hair, and he would know that voice anywhere. "Gil? What the hell are you doing here?"

Gilbert hopped up and flicked on the light. "I am here for seeing you!" he said, bounding back over to Arthur and prodding the bandage on his forehead. "What happened? You're okay, yes?"

"Yeah, fine," Arthur said, still bewildered at seeing the last person who he'd expected here in the room with him. "Keep it down, will you?" As an afterthought after seeing Gil's confused expression, he added, "I mean be quiet, my head hurts. But you didn't answer my question. Why are you here?"

"Because I'm the best friend on the planet."

"I don't know about that, but–"

"The train of Saarbrücken is two hours to Paris, and I wanted to see you." He grinned, looking rather proud of himself. "I have this!" He reached into a backpack that was lying on the floor, pulled out a bar of chocolate, and tossed it at him.

Arthur caught it, unable to help but smile a bit. Though he still wasn't feeling quite well, that didn't stop his happiness at seeing his friend again. He'd thought it had been an empty promise that they'd made in America, but here he was.

"Did you hear of Francis?" he asked.

And then, all at once, he was back to that constant worry. He'd told Gil about the accident and about Francis on the phone earlier. "No, not yet."

"Oh." Gil stopped to check his phone. "I know he will be okay!"

Arthur sighed, pressing a hand to his temple. He was glad for Gil's company, but he spoke louder than anyone he knew. "How?"

Gil thought for a moment, then pulled a miniature dictionary from his bag and flipped to a page about a third of the way from the beginning. "Because you have too much bad luck before now, and now something good will pass."

"I'm not sure if that's how it works."

"Of course it is true," Gil assured him. "You tried to help, and that is good."

"It doesn't matter if he's dead."

Gil gave him a swift, light punch in the shoulder, and Arthur winced. "Don't be so sad," he said. "I forgot you do this."

"To be fair, you haven't exactly seen me in my best moments," Arthur muttered.

Gil laughed heartily. "My English is better than last time, but I don't understand that."

"It's improved a lot," Arthur agreed. To be honest, speaking with Gil the previous summer had been a task in itself.

Before Gil could answer, there was a knock at the door.

Gil cursed and ducked behind Arthur, but the door swung open before he could move too far. In the doorway stood a security guard, glaring as her gaze reached Gilbert who was frozen beside him.

The guard stepped forward and grabbed him by the wrist, her voice stern as she said something Arthur didn't understand. Gil was still grinning, though his gaze was darting around the room in search of an escape. He spit out a quick response in what sounded like French. How many damn languages did he even speak? And more importantly, what the hell had he done to get noticed by the police? Knowing Gil, Arthur supposed that he should have guessed some sort of fiasco would have followed him here.

"What the hell did you do this time?" asked Arthur, grabbing hold of his other wrist.

"Nothing bad!" Gil insisted. "See me more later in the… the… I don't know, the big room in front. Goodbye!"

Arthur stared at the door for a long time after it closed once again. Gil had told him many stories about strange things such as this happening to him on multiple occasions, but Arthur had honestly thought that he had been exaggerating. Perhaps not.

The room seemed strangely quiet when he found himself alone again. It was starting to get to him. He knew that it was a better idea to stay here and rest, but he was feeling up to walking around a bit. The doctors hadn't exactly forbidden him, after all. And if Gil was in some sort of trouble, then he supposed that it was his job to help him out of it.

He was surprised at the sheer size of the hospital. He hadn't exactly been coherent enough to pay attention on the way in and a nurse had walked him to the next room after the initial examination, so he felt as if he'd never seen the halls before as he made his way towards the waiting room. He wondered vaguely if Francis was nearby, and if he'd be allowed to see him soon if he was.

The waiting room was near-empty, thankfully. Gil was sitting in a chair looking rather sheepish as the same security guard lectured him. The guard quieted when Arthur approached them. "You know him?" she asked.

"Yeah, I do," said Arthur, glaring a bit at him. Gil grinned back. "I'm sorry for the trouble, officer."

She shook her head. "You should go back to your room, sir. They may come looking for you." With one more pointed glance at Gilbert, she returned to her post near the door.

"Do I need to ask what that all was about?" Arthur asked as they began the walk back to the room.

Gil let out a mischievous laugh that frankly scared him a little. "I was hiding."

"From?"

"Everyone!" he said, seeming ready to recount some grand adventure. "I came in and looked for you. I went in each room."

"You didn't."

"I did, and I found you!"

Arthur shook his head. "You're too much."

"The best," he agreed, punching the air.

Arthur gratefully took a seat on the table once they arrived back at the room. Maybe he'd been too optimistic about his healing process, as he felt exhausted upon return. He didn't much feel like talking, but Gilbert was all too happy to ramble on about the train ride, school, his younger brother, why the hell he spoke so many languages, even the damn weather back home. It was easy to listen to him. It almost felt too familiar. Arthur was torn between relief that there was a friend there with him and the nagging apprehension of what the doctors would tell him when they came in next.

Gilbert spoke almost nonstop until the door opened again.

They looked up as a technician in a white coat approached them, looking over a clipboard. "You're Monsieur Bonnefoy's friend, Kirkland?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's me," Arthur said, the sense of fear that had been somewhat numbed by Gilbert's presence once again rushing through him with full-force. Was this it? Francis had told him that he didn't have much in the way of family… with no next of kin to speak with, they were going to lay the news on him? "Is he alright?"

The technician looked down at the clipboard, seeming to avoid his gaze. "He's asking for you."


	17. Chapter 17

_Author's Note: _

_I hope this chapter is acceptable to you all, and sorry for taking a whole damn month. It was ridiculously hard to write for some reason._

_Also, hey, thanks for over 50 followers. I didn't really expect to reach that marker. _

_Next chapter will be the final one. Thanks for sticking around. _

* * *

That same feeling of nausea from earlier was growing in him like a gathering storm as the technician led them to the room. The walk there never seemed to end – Arthur hadn't even realized that the hospital had multiple floors until they were on their way up a flight of stairs he hadn't known existed. The second-floor corridors were exactly like those of the first, with one minor difference. They were as silent as a graveyard.

The technician stopped them in front of a closed door. "Before you go in, Mr. Kirkland, could you please sign this?" he asked, passing him a clipboard and pen.

"What am I signing?" Arthur took the clipboard and skimmed the text-heavy document before him.

"A reference form. He doesn't have any family to contact, and he said you're the next best thing. You'll be the first to hear any news."

Arthur shook his head and handed it back to him. "I'm not the one you want. That would be–" A thought struck him, a thought that filled him with sudden fury at himself. "Wait, shit, where's Antonio? Is he alright?"

Gil put a hand on his shoulder and nudged him gently forward. "Go see your friend. If Antonio is in the hospital, I will discover him," he said.

Arthur bit his lip. If Gil left, there was no telling what sort of fiasco would follow. But he couldn't come in with him; no, this was something that Arthur had to do alone. "Don't get into trouble again," he said finally.

"Don't worry, I will not make trouble!" Gil said, shoving his hands in his pockets and sporting a winning smile.

That rowdy grin only made Arthur worry more. But after watching Gil traipse back toward the stairwell, he pushed that thought out of his mind and readied himself for facing Francis for the first time after he'd so thoroughly messed everything up.

If Francis had referred them to him, then he supposed it was alright to sign in Antonio's absence. He took the clipboard and pen back from the technician, then printed his name and Francis's phone number at the bottom of the page. Arthur knew he'd have access to Francis's mobile once he made it back to the flat.

The technician stepped away from the door, saying, "There's an office down the hall here. Please alert someone if there are any problems. Visiting hours end at 10 PM."

With a muttered "thank you," Arthur pushed open the door.

Inside was nearly identical to the hospital room where he'd last seen his grandfather, a room a few degrees cooler than the hallway outside with monitors lining the walls. One of the recovery rooms, far away from the heavy machinery that he'd expected. He was startled by the marked lack of doctors or attendants. But, he supposed, that was probably a good sign. For now, at least.

"Finally."

Francis's voice was more hushed than usual and sounded out of place in comparison to the silent room. He looked… awful. There was no other way to describe it. One of his arms was in a soft cast and there were bandages across the side of his face. Partially hidden behind the collar of a hospital-issued shirt, thick bindings crisscrossed over his neck and shoulders. When he smiled, he only seemed half there.

"My god, are you alright?" Arthur breathed, rushing to his side. He just wanted to fling his arms around him and hold on to prove that he was safe and that no more harm would come to him. But he looked so fragile, like he would break with a single touch. "Never mind that, how are you feeling?"

Francis looked back at him with a hesitant smile. "Fine," he murmured.

Arthur pulled a chair to the side of the bed, frowning at the weak response. "You don't have to lie, you know."

He let out a hollow laugh. "The medicine helps."

Arthur gingerly took his hand, not able to keep the frown off of his face despite his relief that Francis was alive and at least able to speak with him. It reminded him too much of saying goodbye to his grandfather. _Well, they're taking very good care of me._ It wasn't reassuring. "We didn't know if you'd made it or not," he mumbled.

Francis didn't respond, only kept that weak grip on his hand. "What's the bandage for?" he asked after a while.

Arthur reached up to touch the gauze on his forehead, as if to remind himself that it was there. His own injury felt like child's play in Francis's broken presence. "Concussion," he said, wincing slightly at the contact.

"You're alright?"

"Fine."

"You don't have to lie," he echoed.

Arthur smiled a bit in spite of himself. "Really, it's just a headache. I'll return back to normal in a few days with some rest. It's you we need to worry about." He bit his lip, wanting to ask just how extensive the injuries were but not knowing how to pose the question. If Francis really was doing as well as he made it out to be, wouldn't he have said so? "Do you know when you can go home?" he decided on at last.

Francis's gaze flicked to the door for the briefest of seconds. "They didn't tell you about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? What's supposed to…" He trailed off, his train of thought dissolving altogether as a cold feeling swept through him. "Francis, what is it?"

He still wasn't looking at him. It was disconcerting. "Know that I'm trying, okay?"

"What the hell is that supposed to–"

"They're doing an emergency procedure tomorrow morning," he said quickly, his grasp on Arthur's hand tightening. "An experimental one, so… the chances aren't good."

Arthur sat stock still for a moment as his listless mind attempted to process Francis's words. "The chances," he articulated. The air around him felt suddenly thick and unbreathable, and he shut his eyes against the dizziness that he'd been trying so hard to ignore. Was he going to elaborate at all, or was he just going to leave him to connect the dots himself until they formed the outline of that painful assumption? Was there really that little of a chance? There was a possibility that he'd just read too far into his words, right? "The chances of what?" he hazarded at long last.

"Humor me, Arthur. Just this once."

Arthur raised a hand to his temple in an attempt to stop the room from spinning around him like a clinical white merry-go-round. "Well why the hell are they waiting until tomorrow?" he managed. "Don't you need help _now_?"

Francis grimaced. "They were rather guarded about that. From what I've gathered, they're waiting for more signs of stability. I suppose this is sort of a prep period."

"Sounds like total bollocks to me."

Francis nodded slightly in assent.

After a bit of silence, Arthur spoke up again. "I'm sorry," he said. It was becoming difficult to keep a steady tone. There was no denying it – Arthur could see it in his eyes. Francis wasn't in a good place. Anyone who didn't believe that was putting their faith in a false optimism, a lie that would only lead to blissful ignorance amidst catastrophe. And all that Arthur could do was sit there like an idiot and offer a meaningless apology. "I know that sounds insincere, but I truly am. It's my fault we were there in the first place."

"It's not." He crossed his arms the best he could over the cast. "We're just lying to ourselves if we thought there was anything we could do."

"Nothing you say will change the fact that I fucked everything up."

"Just don't," said Francis, frowning. "You're always saying things like that, and it's uncalled-for."

"It's not–"

"Arthur, be quiet." His tired voice was stern and his frown had grown into something of a glare. "We can talk about this later, alright?"

Arthur leaned back in the chair with a heavy sigh. "I didn't mean to get into anything heavy like that," he said, the looming tiredness seeping into his own voice.

"It's fine." Francis's tone was soft and forgiving, but his downcast expression told a different story.

Arthur couldn't find the motivation to speak after that. Half of his thoughts were self-deprecating accusations that he couldn't – wouldn't – let out in Francis's presence, and the other half were worries that would be better kept to himself. He assumed that Francis was already pondering enough worries of his own, and adding more would hardly be good for him. So he stayed silent, watching green numbers flick by on a monitor against the far wall.

Francis fell into a shallow sleep a little while later, and Arthur considered leaving before he woke him up again. He needed his rest. There was only about an hour left until visiting hours were over, however, so he figured it wouldn't do any harm to stay at least until he was made to leave.

They would come back to escort him to the waiting room at 10 PM. That was 45 minutes away. He had just under an hour to say goodbye if there really was such a small chance of his survival. He wanted to wake him up so that even if things turned out for the worse the following day, then at least they could make the most of the time that they had left together. But with the strain Francis was under now, Arthur was glad that he was able to rest. Heavens knew that in the same situation, Arthur would lay awake all night, racked with worry that wouldn't allow him a moment of sleep. He didn't want to ruin this for him.

An "experimental procedure," Francis had called it. No matter how Arthur thought about it, something didn't feel right.

A metallic beeping cut through the air and pulled Arthur from his thoughts. A technician entered the room not a minute later, went over to a monitor in the corner, and pressed a few buttons, and the beeping stopped. The two of them were left in silence once more.

Francis pulled himself up with deliberate grogginess and rubbed his eyes. "Shit. I didn't mean to fall asleep like that. I'm a bit tired."

"It's alright," Arthur assured him. "You need to rest up for tomorrow."

He furrowed his brow as if in deep thought, and then his shoulders slumped as he made the connection of Arthur's words. "I'd forgotten about that."

"Maybe that's a good thing." Arthur leaned forward a bit and lowered his voice. "Don't think about it too much, okay? You'll be fine."

"Is that what your book says?"

Arthur averted his gaze toward the door. He'd already told Francis that he was done lying to him, but that didn't make it any easier. "Not exactly."

Francis leaned back again. "I see."

"Look, I've said it before and I'll say it again. We can still change it."

"That's not the point anymore."

"When the hell did that change, then?"

Francis pointedly avoided his gaze. "We did what we could. I already said I'm alright with whatever outcome."

"If you keep saying things like that, your chances tomorrow fall to exactly zero," Arthur said coldly. "It's almost like you're trying to will it into being at this point. Promise me that you won't just give up, okay? Can you at least do that?"

Francis didn't answer right away. "I can't promise that," he said at long last, not meeting his gaze.

There were so many things that Arthur wanted to say to him that he was at a loss for where to start. He wanted to shout that they'd been through too much to give up now, that they were so close to putting all of this behind them, and that there was only a little more to accomplish before they never had to think about it again. But he kept his mouth shut. In the end, it would be up to Francis and the doctors to determine the conclusion of these stressful few days.

He'd thought before that nothing he could say would possibly be able to make a difference. That's how it always was. But maybe, just maybe, he could say something worthwhile this time. Something that had been pressing on his heart for the past few days like a weight.

"You remember how you offered to let me move in with you?" Arthur began, his shoulders slumping in silent resignation. He hazarded a glance at Francis, continuing only when he nodded. "I suppose I can. And I'd like to do that. Honestly. We could get jobs and split the rent, and I could go to school and you could set up your studio. And we'd cook dinner and drink wine and go for walks, and we'd go to that damned nightclub you were telling me about on the train last week, no matter how much rubbish it sounds like. And you and me and Antonio and Emma could go to that café whenever we want and play cards until they kick us out."

He hadn't realized how much his voice wavered as he spoke until now – it became harder to keep an even tone the longer he spoke. But he was going to finish this thought, dammit, even if he were rasping by the end of it. He had to. "It'd take some work, yeah. But it'd be worth it." He took Francis's hand again, holding it tight for his own sake as well as Francis's, and took a deep breath in an attempt to steady his voice. "You could start over, you know? You don't have to hold onto any of that damn baggage you've had with you for the past few years." He smiled a bit, despite the disheartening look Francis was giving him. "And everything would go back to normal again. I think it'd be good for both of us."

Francis mirrored his expression, and Arthur nearly cringed at how hollow that little smile was. "It would be."

God, he didn't know what to say. He just felt more frightened the longer that they spoke. They were getting nowhere. "There's still so much out there you haven't had the chance to get out and do," he muttered, looking away as he felt the last shred of hopefulness between them slip away.

But then…

"I'll try."

Arthur looked up at him, his words caught in his throat. "That's… That's good," was all he could manage. "Just keep that up."

"Hm."

Silence filled the room once more. He didn't know what to say after that. He was fine with just leaving the conversation there. They were at a higher point than before, right? But now, there was another thought swimming through Arthur's mind, one that had been nagging at him for weeks. Now would be a good a time as ever.

He wasn't particularly eager to bring up the topic; Francis always seemed uncomfortable whenever one of them mentioned the party or the morning that followed it at Arthur's apartment. But even if curiosity alone wasn't reason enough to ask, there was more behind it than just that. "Last week at my flat," he started slowly, "you told me that your friends wouldn't miss you if something were to happen to you." Arthur shook his head, a frown working itself onto his face before he had the chance to stop it. "They practically worship the ground you walk on. From what I've seen, what you told me is total bullshit."

Francis let out a nervous laugh. "I suppose it is. At the time, though, it felt like the truth."

"Don't unnerve yourself so much. We'd obviously all…" He didn't feel like finishing the sentence. "Never mind," he said, before standing up. "Get some rest, alright? I'll be back in the morning."

"Couldn't you stay a little while longer?" Francis asked. His eyes were pleading, an expression that Arthur hadn't seen him wear before.

Arthur stopped. "Of course," he said. In a way, he was relieved. If Francis wanted him to stay then he was more than happy to oblige.

Francis took hold of the front of Arthur's shirt and pulled him into a kiss. "Thanks for everything," he said, not looking at him.

"Thank me tomorrow. I'll bring everyone by in the morning, so don't keep us waiting," Arthur said, also having trouble meeting his eye.

"I'll keep that in mind." And with that, he leaned back against the pillows, his features settling into a worried expression once more.

"It'll be fine," Arthur muttered in assurance, more to himself than to Francis.

"Yeah."

Arthur couldn't remember exactly what happened after that. He was overcome with another bout of dizziness – curse his injury – and found himself battling that lack of attention again even after it passed. Francis had dropped off to sleep sometime later, and Arthur had unintentionally followed suit in the chair beside him. The next thing he knew, he was being prodded awake by a doctor who was telling him that visiting hours were over.

He couldn't see the use in berating Gil for getting into trouble again when he arrived in the waiting room just after ten PM. He was practically on autopilot as he explained to the same irritated officer that yes, they were leaving now, and no, Gil would not be coming back; his mind was swimming with somber thoughts relating to what the technician had told him about the upcoming procedure upon exiting Francis's room.

A five percent chance of survival wasn't hopeless, right?

Gil hardly shut up during the whole cab ride back to the flat, but Arthur wasn't listening. It felt like too much effort to try to explain to a panicked Antonio what had happened once they arrived at the flat. Arthur just handed the information packet to Gil with instructions to get the point across to the other two, then tossed his things on the floor of the apartment before pulling a blanket over his shoulders and putting the kettle on the stove. A cup of tea would do him good.

The others left him alone after he retreated to Francis's flat. He could still hear the muffled voices of Antonio and Emma as Gil explained everything to them on the other side of the thin wall, but no one came in to bother him. He was glad for that, at first.

But the empty flat soon began to get to him.

The darkness of the room gave him a sense of unease, but putting on a lamp only threw deep, unnerving shadows across the walls that kept him glancing over his shoulder every few seconds in apprehension. A clock ticked, the fire hissed, the scent of gas from the stove hung in a suffocating cloud. The air around him seemed more thick and toxic with every breath he took. It felt as if the walls were closing in. He found himself backed into a corner of the kitchen, feeling his breathing quicken as he wrapped his arms tightly around himself.

He jumped at the whistle of the kettle. Finally, something familiar to pull him out of what was becoming a state of distress. His hands shook as he poured hot water into a mug and he lifted it gratefully to his lips, but the usually comforting beverage tasted bitter and foreign.

The flat became detestable to him in that moment. God, was it always like this here? Was this what Francis dealt with daily? This gnawing sense of paranoia, entrapment… loneliness?

He reached for the window for some air, but it swung open to reveal nothing. Not a single light was visible through the shapeless wall of gray fog where there was usually the familiar sight of the streetlamp and cobblestone street. It was as if this room was the last thing that existed.

Arthur heard the sound of shattering glass as he slumped to the floor against the cabinets. And there he sat, clutching his knees to his chest with his eyes held shut, silently waiting for something to break the feeling of absolute ensnarement that had come across him.

And then Gil was beside him, shaking his shoulder before helping him first to his feet and then across the room to the sofa. Arthur kept his eyes closed, sitting on the sofa and taking in shuddering breaths until Gil pressed another cup of tea into his hands and lay a blanket over his shoulders. The tea tasted right this time, and the faint herbal aroma calmed his nerves. When Arthur finally opened his eyes, the air was clear and the room looked just as it always had.

Gil mentioned something about a broken mug, and Arthur muttered an apology. He was frightened when he thought about that bout of _whatever it was_ that had happened just minutes before in the kitchen, but now he was only left with a sense of complete and utter weariness.

Not much later, he crawled into the bed and pulled the covers over his head. The room spun but settled after a while, leaving him tired and allowing the worries of earlier return.

Five percent.

Shit.

* * *

The sight alone of the waiting room had become enough to sicken him.

That morning, Gil had cast questioning glances at him over mugs of coffee at the table. Arthur refused to answer any questions about the night before. He felt perfectly fine now, thank you very much, and that was that.

Now, there were more pressing matters to attend to.

The four of them had met in front of the building that morning just after the sun had risen, the sky above them a dull gray in the early light. The cramped taxi ride to the hospital passed in near silence. No one had much to say that couldn't be told through looks alone. Arthur hadn't received a call from the doctors to update him on Francis's condition. He didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. No news was good news, but something told him that he should be worried.

Gilbert was nearly denied access when they arrived. The same officer was beside the door when they entered the waiting room, and she was vehemently against him coming in again. But after a bit of convincing, she allowed him to sit with the other three under the condition that he didn't leave her sight. That didn't stop him from wandering later into the main corridor with the excuse that he was looking for a restroom. But of course, after an absence of over ten minutes, Arthur went looking for him to find him lazily wheeling down the hallway in a wheelchair he'd found.

Antonio was sitting with his arms folded, chewing on his bottom lip as he stared across the near-empty room at the receptionists desk. Emma was nervously tapping a ballpoint pen against the leg of her chair. The clacking of the plastic on metal was the loudest sound in the room as they waited.

They were no less wary when a doctor called them over at long last than when they first arrived at the hospital.

Arthur sprung to his feet and hurried to meet him. He brushed aside the sense of foreboding that was pushing its way into his mind; after the entire night and morning of oblivious waiting, there would be an answer. Whether the news would be a cause for joy or despair would now be revealed.

"Kirkland?" the doctor confirmed.

"Yeah, is Francis alright?"

"He's been resting," the doctor explained. "We wanted to make sure before we let you know for certain. But against the odds, he'll be fine."

There was hardly a second of silence before Arthur found himself laughing, the strains of the past few days melting away from him. Gil clapped him on the back as the doctor translated the news for the other two. And then they were all on their feet, smiling and laughing for the first time in days.

* * *

Francis was smiling when Arthur entered the room. His eyes were tired and disposition weak, but his smile was bright. He pulled Arthur into a grateful hug as Arthur sat at the side of his bed, not letting go for a long time. Arthur was more than happy just to sit there in silence with their arms around each other. Francis was going to be alright against the odds. Everything would go back to normal.

"That was quite a journey," Francis remarked at long last.

Arthur let out a hollow laugh. "You're telling me. Shit, Francis, we were all so damn worried…"

"I won't be allowed to go home for a while, but we can say it's all behind us now."

He nodded, pulling absently at a string on the bedspread. After a bit, he said, "I was terrified. I was sure you were just going to give up."

Francis didn't answer right away. "I nearly did," he confessed at long last. "There was a point where I felt it could go either way. I'd already told you that I didn't care – don't look at me like that," he said after a warning glance from Arthur. "I told _myself_ that I didn't care, and I was ready to just let go of it all. But…" He stopped, looking over at him with apprehensive shame written across his face.

Arthur leaned forward in the slightest. "But?" he prompted.

A second later, Francis continued. "But I thought of what a certain annoyingly persistent Brit would say if he knew what I was thinking. I knew he'd tell me to buck up and stop dragging my feet, and that I'd be a fool to give up now before things start looking up again." His smile dimmed a bit before he continued. "And I thought about how he'd been through things that would break the spirit of most people, but he's still going strong. And if he can do that, then so can I."

Arthur didn't even attempt to stop the tears of relief as he flung his arms back around Francis, muttering "of course you can" under his breath until the words seemed to lose their meaning.

* * *

When at last Arthur returned back to the apartment, after having been out all day with the others, he laid the notebook open on the table. He flipped through to the end and counted back to the current entry. Two hundred and eighty-seven blank pages.

The tension that had been steadily building over the past few weeks in regards to that book seemed to disappear in that moment. After all that time, they could finally go back to their normal lives without its constant threat hanging above them.

He thought back to what Gil had told him at the hospital the day before. _You have too much bad luck before now, and now something good will pass_. Perhaps he had been right; perhaps not. But either way, Arthur would take it.

Because for the first time, fate hadn't denied them the best outcome in that strain of burdensome events. He welcomed the change.


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N:_

_I'd just like to say that I'm so, so thankful for each and every one of you who left a review, clicked "follow," or even just made it to this point of the story. Without your support, this thing wouldn't have made it past chapter ten. _

_With that said, I'd like to hear what you think. Please consider leaving a review if you liked it, or if you didn't like it, or if you even just want to say hello. I'm always working on improving, and getting feedback on this would mean an awful lot to me. All I ask is that you don't leave flames, but I really value constructive criticism. Thanks! _

_Shameless self-promotion: I'm starting a full-length fic for NaNoWriMo this year. It takes place in America in the 1920s, and it follows the story of a detective (Arthur) who accidentally gets mixed up in the world of organized crime that the 20s are known for. All 50k words will be uploaded at intervals in December of this year, and I'm going to pay specific attention to characterization so it won't be sub-par like this one. If you're interested, look for it in about a month! _

_Someone in the comments section asked me to write a oneshot about some of the side characters from this story, so I may do that at some point. If anyone has anything to add to that, I'd be happy to hear it and I may write a couple of oneshots depending on what people are interested in. Drop a review or a message if you'd like to give input on that._

_Again, thank you all so much. _

_Now for the conclusion... _

* * *

Arthur closed his laptop with a sigh, utterly relieved to have finally finished the online homework that he'd all but forgotten during the fiasco of the previous week. Working for the larger part of three hours, he'd been able to copy down all of the notes for his Psychology course, print and complete each of the online worksheets required for his Mathematics class, and even send in a few quizzes that had been assigned for Economics.

He'd chosen a little café on the corner of a busy street as his working location for the day. His table was shaded from the sun by a striped overhang that provided just enough protection from the light that had been filling the sky for the past few days. Every hour or so he'd pick up a cup of iced coffee at the front counter and return to his seat, no one giving him a second glance or any sort of indication that he had overstayed his welcome. There, he'd finally found something that he preferred about Paris: in London, he'd have been kicked out hours earlier for loitering. Francis would be pleased.

He'd gone to see Francis every day since the announcement of his recovery; sometimes all four of them would go together, but due to the fact that Emma and Antonio had to return to work, Arthur often went alone. Francis seemed stronger each day.

He was frighteningly unresponsive for the first few days; the evening when Arthur spoke with him after the procedure was the last time for days that he was feeling well before having a negative reaction to a medication. But following that, his smiles and laughs became more frequent with every visit. He'd recently been feeling well enough to consider fleeing the hospital on Gil's suggestion – Arthur had shut that down as soon as he'd gotten wind of it.

But now, with the knowledge that Francis would make a full recovery, Arthur found time for relaxation.

Nearly all of his homework was finished now. And yet, there was still that essay he had been pretending simply didn't exist for the past week. Grumbling, he pulled a spiral notebook from his bag and glanced over what he had written earlier.

It was blatantly obvious that he'd been drinking while he wrote it. His handwriting, which he usually took pride in, was less than perfect and wove over the lines in miniature waves. The things he had written hardly seemed to have much relevance to the subject, either; the longer he looked over it, the more he detested the subject. He couldn't care less about Anton Chekhov, no matter how much it would impress his professor.

After much procrastination and careful deliberation, he grabbed the edge of the page and tore it from the book. The prompt had gotten him absolutely nowhere. Then, staring down at the new blank page, he tapped the end of his pencil against the paper and willed another idea to come to him.

If there was one thing that Arthur learned in his limited travels, it was that sometimes the most obscure events yielded the most beneficial results. That was certainly the case when a young woman literally ran into him at the café that afternoon.

He was too deep in thought to realize that he was in the path of the distracted tourist until he felt the table shift beneath him.

"Dang it, sorry about that!" came a loud, American-accented voice as Arthur quickly lifted the book from the surface of the table before the expanding pool of coffee could damage the pages. The newcomer grabbed a pile of napkins from another table and tossed them onto the spill.

"It's fine," Arthur muttered as he picked up one of the napkins and started to wipe coffee off of the cover of his book.

The girl stopped. "Hey, you speak English!" she exclaimed, a note of what sounded like thankfulness in her voice.

"Yeah, I'm from England." Arthur set the book down atop the pile of napkins before finally looking up at her.

She was somewhat short, petite-looking with red hair. She stood with a confident stance, but had a sort of awkward look about her as if she didn't know where she was or what she was supposed to be doing. "Thank goodness. I'm a bit lost, and it's kinda hard to find someone I can understand." As Arthur watched, she pulled the soaked paper towels from the table and looked around.

"There's a bin there," Arthur offered, pointing to the sidewalk not far away. He didn't know what to say to her other than that. Hopefully, she'd be on her way soon, and Arthur could go back to… well, whatever it was that he was trying to accomplish.

The girl shot him a grin, then left for a moment to get rid of the napkins before quickly darting into the café.

Arthur took a seat once more at the table and flipped the book open. It was disappointing that he no longer had a coffee to help him figure out what to write about, but he supposed that now would be a good time to stop racking up an insane tab at 3€ per coffee.

That girl… There was something comforting about her. American accents only made him cross for the most part, as they always got him started on a train of thought that would ultimately lead him to Alfred. But this girl, with her wavy hair and bright smile and—

Arthur shook his head. No, he wasn't thinking about this. Good lord, what would Francis say? He'd probably just laugh, but that was no reason to—

"Here you go!"

Arthur looked up as a fresh cup of coffee was set down before him. The girl pulled up a chair opposite him and sat down, smoothing the folds of her plaid sundress over her knee. "Sorry about the coffee. I grabbed another one for you." She stuck her hand out. "I'm Kennie," she said, flashing that bright smile at him again.

He shook her hand, unable to keep a shy smile off of his own face. "Arthur," he said. "Thank you, by the way. You didn't have to do that." Nevertheless, he picked up the coffee and took a sip. There, now he could go back to work.

"Whatcha working on?" asked Kennie, craning her neck to see what was on the paper.

Arthur's brow furrowed. "I'm supposed to be working on an essay, but I haven't the slightest idea what to write about," he said, frowning down at the book.

"Maybe I can help," she said. "I'm studying in San Diego, California, so I'm pretty strong on the essay scene. It's pretty different from Paris, really. I guess kinda similar too, in a way. Anyway, what's your essay on?"

Arthur looked up at her quizzically, her words having caught his attention. "It's a compare and contrast essay, open-ended," he said slowly. "I'm from London, and I've noticed a lot different between these two cities as well. Maybe you could help me out a bit with your knowledge of San Diego?"

She brightened. "I sure could!" she said. "Sounds like you've got your essay right there, Arthur."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, jotting down quick notes as Kennie spoke.

Thank heavens for friendly tourists. This would be tons better than a stuffy report on Anton Chekhov.

* * *

As Arthur stood on the front porch, he couldn't help but marvel at how much time he'd spent being 100% nervous recently. He tried hard to remind himself that they were all here for Antonio and that he himself would hardly be expected to speak much, but the thought of confronting the man he'd so blatantly launched an attack on left him on edge.

The nurse, who had introduced himself as Berwald over the phone, lived in a small cottage about 45 minutes southeast of the city. The taxi ride, necessary since Antonio's car was now dismantled in a scrapyard somewhere, was loud and crowded. He would have been thankful to finally arrive in the farmland if he weren't so preoccupied with mentally drafting a suitable apology.

Berwald's husband, Tino, whom Arthur recognized as the blonde who had helped Berwald up from the ice at the crash site, greeted them at the door with a smile. Arthur, however, was overcome with a feeling of guilt as he stood on the doorstep with the others. He didn't know what he'd say to either of them once he was inside. He didn't move until Gil prodded him in the back and told him not to be so damn slow.

The house was small but homely, and the scent of sumptuous food filled the air. Arthur shied away to the back of the group when Berwald met them in the hallway.

"I'm sorry," Arthur muttered, not meeting Berwald's eye as they shook hands.

Berwald just grunted in response and fixed him with that piercing gaze. "How's your injury?" he asked, nodding up at the bandage upon Arthur's forehead.

"Fine… Much better. Thank you." Arthur shifted awkwardly, longing to follow his friends and Tino into the dining room instead of standing alone in the hallway with Berwald. "Look, about a few days ago–"

He shook his head and turned away. "S'fine. We'll talk after dinner."

That only made him more nervous.

But Berwald didn't confront him again and, after a hearty meal prepared by Tino with a little assistance from their young son, Tino led Emma, Gil, and Arthur to the living room so that Antonio and Berwald could talk over insurance details without distraction.

"How is your friend doing?" Tino asked as he handed a cup of tea to Arthur.

"Francis is fine," Arthur replied, taking the tea graciously. "Healing rather well, I'd say. There was a fiasco at first because the medication he was on wasn't working, but everything's going well now. I go to see him daily." Arthur felt his cheeks go a bit pink and he stopped, mentally scolding himself for going off on a tangent like that.

Tino didn't seem bothered, but looked a bit downcast when he next spoke. "I'm sorry that happened. It's horrible that someone had to get hurt like that." Peter, who was sitting beside him, held tightly to his arm. Tino absently ruffled his son's hair. "We've contacted everyone who was involved. No one else was hurt badly."

"That's a relief," Arthur said. But he couldn't help but wonder why, out of everyone involved, Francis was the one who was dealing with most of the consequences. Fate was certainly playing a cruel game.

Tino moved on to speak with Gil and offer Emma something to drink, and Arthur leaned back on the couch and sipped his tea. He could hear the hushed voices of Berwald and Antonio in the other room, Antonio's voice light and almost fragile in comparison to the other man's.

The lights were turned low and there was a fire roaring in the hearth, and Arthur felt a little sleepy after the large meal. Just as he was ready to nod off, however, he felt someone sit beside him. Arthur opened his eyes just in time to see Berwald's son pull himself onto his lap. "Um," Arthur started, not quite sure what to do. "Hello, Peter," he decided on finally.

Peter didn't respond, only leaned heavily on the arm of the couch.

Arthur had never really been one to appreciate children, what with their constant racket and boundless energy that they only ever seemed to use for mischievous purposes. But, sitting in that cozy living room with the others and listened to the soft voices of the others, he didn't mind as much as he figured he would. Even if the child's weight was cutting off feeling in his leg.

They'd caught Tino's attention some time later, and he returned to Arthur's side with a somewhat apologetic look on his face. "I guess it's time for bed," Tino said, picking up the protesting toddler. "Say goodnight, Peter."

Peter opened an unfocused eye and waved over Tino's shoulder. Arthur waved back in spite of himself.

Once Tino was out of the room, Gil turned to him and said, "Very nice family."

Arthur nodded and set down his empty teacup. "Right. We couldn't have had a collision with a nicer group of people."

He couldn't stay bitter at anyone for long, though. Tino and Berwald were extremely hospitable, and there was a sense of welcome in this little house that Arthur hadn't felt elsewhere recently. The settled-down family life did seem to have its merits. Arthur hadn't seen anything like this within his own family for ages. Maybe there would be a chance to remedy that when he returned to London.

He pushed thoughts about leaving this place out of his mind as he listened to Gil telling Tino the story of his hospital escapades and run-ins with authority on his way to Paris, Berwald and Antonio joining them later to listen in as well. It was nice to have someone else do all the talking for once. For now, things were fine as they were.

Yes, London could wait.

* * *

Arthur stared hard at the menu above the counter. He didn't want to keep the other three waiting for him at the table nearby, and all he had to do was order the coffees and he'd be able to sit down with them… But the longer he waited, the more difficult it was to recall the phrases he'd so recently learned.

A voice from the other side of the café pulled him from his thoughts. "Come on, Arthur," Gil shouted without regard for the other patrons. "Today, please!"

Behind him, Emma gave an encouraging smile that helped Arthur a bit in regaining his composure. He turned back to face the counter. Alright, just like they'd practiced…

The cashier behind the counter looked across at him with impatience written across her face. "_Est-ce que je peux vous aidez_?" she asked for the second time, over-enunciating as if she were skeptical of Arthur's comprehension.

"_Oui, merci_," came Arthur's mumbled reply as he tried hard to concentrate. He'd had each of his friends repeat their orders enough times that morning to the point where he'd likely never forget exactly how they took their coffees. "_Un café au lait_," he recited, recalling Emma's order of coffee with milk. "_Aussi, un café avec le sucre_." Antonio's coffee with sugar. And, for himself and Gil, nothing added. "_Et deux cafés serrés_," he finished, feeling rather pleased that he'd remembered the phrases in addition to the specific orders.

The cashier rung up the coffees. "_Neuf euros soixante, s'il vous plaît._"

Arthur dug through his pockets for the money Gil had given him. He'd caught the "nine" part; but, not knowing what followed, he resigned himself to handing over a ten Euro note. He was glad that the bill wasn't on him this time. It was even more expensive to go out for coffee in Paris than it was in London, and even more so to sit down at a café as opposed to standing at the bar. Being more expensive than London was a feat in itself either way.

The other three greeted him at the table. "Did I make any mistakes?" Arthur asked as he passed the change back to Gil.

"Yes," Gil said, not bothering to elaborate.

Antonio snatched a coin from Gil and spun it on the surface of the table. "_Pas mal_," he told him.

"Not very bad for one week of learning," Gil admitted, trying to swipe the coin back.

"Well, it's all thanks to you three that I even understand that much," Arthur said, picking up a coin himself and spinning it towards Antonio. "Tell them… Tell them thanks for that, will you?"

After Gil passed on the message, Emma responded with a good-natured and well-placed kick to Arthur's ankle under the table.

The past few sunny days had been a welcome reprieve from the rainy spell that had encroached upon the city until then. Though the temperature remained low, they made use of the nice weather by exploring the streets of Paris and showing Gil around the city.

Antonio and Gil got along incredibly well. They used every possible moment engaged in conversation with one another, and spent their tour day taking goofy pictures together in front of monuments with Arthur's somewhat-neglected camera.

Much in the same way, Arthur found that he had taken a liking to Emma. The two of them had spent the majority of their time together, even if it was just spent walking side by side behind the other two and speaking – mostly about the weather and food, for which Arthur was now trying to pick up vocabulary – at any chance they could. While Antonio and Gil rode to the top floor of the Eiffel Tower, the two of them waited in the plaza below. Neither of them were very good with heights. But with the language barrier somewhat more depleted than before, it was rather enjoyable to be around her – despite the fact that most of their conversations dissolved into charades. That didn't seem to be a problem, however, since Emma was a natural helper and was more than willing to aid him with basic vocabulary and phrases while they traveled the city.

For the second time, Gil's voice caught his attention and snapped him out of his thoughts. "Pass on!" Gil shouted at him from across the table.

"Is that a threat?" Arthur responded meekly, irritated at having spaced out again. His mind had been wandering so much lately that he often lost track of what was going on for minutes at a time.

Gil raised his eyebrows in confusion. "_Passt auf_? Pass on?" After receiving a blank look from Arthur, he pulled from his pocket the little translation dictionary that he had taken to keeping with him at all times. "Oh," he said a bit later after searching for the right term. "'Pay attention.'"

Arthur took a sip of his coffee, which someone had apparently fetched from the café counter and had let cool considerably while he daydreamed. "Right, sorry about that."

"You heard my question?" Gil asked.

He shook his head. "Can't say I did."

"I said, why you are more happy today?" he said, supposedly for the second time. "You were happy yesterday for your friend, but now is different."

Ah, right. That. It had certainly come as a surprise to him, so it was only natural that it would affect his mood for the better. "Can you keep a secret?" Arthur asked, leaning forward a bit – somewhat unnecessary, since no one around them would bother to listen in, and it wasn't information that he had to keep under wraps. Perhaps spending so much time around Francis had given him a flair for the dramatic.

Gil leaned forward over the table as well, nodding vigorously.

"I spoke with my parents this morning–"

"_That_'s why you are happy?" Gil cut in. "I thought you did not want to talk with them."

Arthur directed a pointed glance away from his friend and took another long sip of coffee. "I wasn't finished," he said. After he was positive that Gil wouldn't interrupt again, he continued. "I didn't want to at first, you're right. My mother was scared and wouldn't stop apologizing and telling me to come home, and I wasn't looking forward to calming her down." He took another sip, pleased at the sight of Gil hanging onto his every word. "But then I spoke with my father, and we talked out some things that I was worried about. About the future, and everything." He paused to watch thin trails of steam swirl from the dark coffee in his mug. "When I return home, I'm going to begin an apprenticeship with the family company. The one that my great-grandfather started about a hundred years ago. Hopefully, in a few years, I'll be able to take a management position."

Gil grinned. "Arthur, that's great!" he said, turning back to his own half-empty coffee mug. Then a second later, he looked back up with a look of slight confusion. "But you want to leave home, yes?"

Arthur felt his face pull into a frown. "That's right," he said, remembering that he had spoken with Gil about this on the phone a few months back. "But I'm not in a position to consider that right now. I'll just have to take things as they come, and who knows? Maybe I'll land a work-from-home position and travel the world."

"Then you must visit me and my awesome friends in Germany first." Gil's usual rowdy grin had given way to something softer, a look that Arthur hadn't seen on him since that night in the United States. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he'd poured out his soul to the person who had been a complete stranger at the time and who now sat across the table from him as a good friend. "Do what you must do. You will be okay."

And just like that, Arthur's smile from earlier was back. "I suppose we'll see."

* * *

A cold wind greeted them as they stepped through the doorway and into the cool night air. Arthur rearranged his scarf so that the chill wouldn't have quite a harsh effect, but there was no way around the fact that it felt like one of the coldest nights since they'd arrived in the city. He'd been living in this apartment building for the past few weeks, but he'd never been this high up in the structure. Part of him wondered if they were even allowed to be here. Then again, the only person who would be able to object was the proprietor, and Antonio hadn't made any place on the premises off-limits to them.

It was the first night since Francis had arrived back at home. He was exhausted and everyday tasks were enough to wear him out, but his delight at being back at home overpowered any disdain for those nuances. For once, things were starting to feel right.

The view that awaited them on the roof of the apartment building – the darkened sky, the few stars twinkling through the Parisian haze, the buildings dominating the skyline, the lights of the nearby city glistening on the horizon – fit Francis better than clinical white ever would.

"It's a nice night." Francis was sitting at the edge of the building with his feet hanging over the side. "Looks like it's going to rain."

Arthur approached him cautiously, unable to suppress a shiver. The bitter chill had settled in once more tonight after so many days of crisp air and cool sunlight. For this night, at least, that freezing weather was here to stay. "It does," he said, adjusting his coat against the cold. Being so near to the edge of the roof wasn't doing much to help.

Francis patted the spot beside him and, despite his apprehension, Arthur took a seat. He took a light hold of Francis's arm – it was still strange to contact the cast that encased most of his right forearm where Arthur expected a thin wrist – and gazed down at the street below. The snow was long gone, but it was upon those cobblestones that Arthur had first experienced the phenomenon nearly a week ago. It was the street where he'd taken some of his first steps in Paris, and it was the view that he had grown so accustomed to at the window of Francis's apartment.

He didn't want to think about leaving it all behind soon.

"I used to come up here to paint. Or just when I needed a break. You know." Francis was still gazing out at the inner-city lights along the horizon. "It's too bright during the day. But on a clear night, you can sometimes see the stars over the city. It's nice."

Arthur moved his hand so that their fingers just barely touched. "What's got you troubled?"

Francis still didn't meet his gaze. "So much has happened," he said, his gaze moving to the orange-tinted streetlamp below them. "I feel like everything should be going back to how it used to be, but it's different now. Does that make sense?"

Arthur sighed. He knew exactly what he was saying. He'd become acquainted with that feeling almost too much. "Yeah, it does."

A car passed below, and they quieted until the splashing of the tires died down once more. It was a comfortable silence, the kind that was becoming more frequent between them than the awkward pauses that had seemed to pass all too often at the beginning of their time in Paris.

"Have you… gotten a bill from the hospital yet?" Francis asked after a while.

Arthur nodded. "It wasn't as horrible as I expected. They charged me for the ambulance, medication, doctor fees… And an IV, for some reason. I didn't even know I had an IV. I certainly don't _remember_ having one."

"To be perfectly fair, you were concussed," Francis said, looking a bit distracted. It seemed as if he weren't paying full attention. "My bill was…" He stopped, searching for the right word. "It was more extensive than that." He shook his head. "Even with this country's social security reimbursement, I can't pay for this. I was in financial trouble already, but this…"

"Sue someone," Arthur suggested.

Francis narrowed his eyes. "Getting right to the point, I see."

"It's not a question of morality," Arthur said quickly. "It's what happens, and it's what's expected. You got hurt and it wasn't your fault, so you need to get someone to take responsibility. Besides," he continued when Francis still didn't look convinced, "the insurance companies will get most of it, and it's all water under the bridge to them. You won't be hurting anyone. At least, that's what Berwald said."

"Berwald," Francis repeated. "Tall, short blonde hair, glasses?"

"You know him?"

"He came to see me just after you did the day after the procedure," he said. "He was quite polite. Wanted to make sure that everyone was alright and gave me something to eat so I could stay away from that horrid hospital food."

"Well, he was certainly polite," Arthur agreed, thinking back to the evening that they spent with Berwald and Tino. "He invited us to dinner with his family, and he and Antonio spent some time talking over insurance and how we're going to deal with all of this. We're working on it, alright? You don't need to worry about it."

"Right," Francis mumbled, although he still didn't look fully persuaded.

He glanced over at Francis, noting the miniscule frown upon his face. Arthur'd had more than enough chances to pick up on his mannerisms after living with him, and he could tell in moments like these that Francis was preparing to say something important. So he waited, silently, until Francis spoke up again.

"There's something else," he said at long last. "A few things, really. Will you listen?"

Arthur reached up to brush away a leaf that had settled on Francis's jacket on their short walk that earlier that day. "Of course," he said, taking Francis's hand again. "Go ahead, I'll listen. What are you thinking about?"

"Everything." Francis let out a slight chuckle. "An old employer offered to take me on again, so I've got a job lined up for when I'm able to go back to work. Not that I'm not glad to have the work," he explained quickly. "I just don't want to fall into the same patterns I was in before." He looked away, a thoughtful look upon his face. "Arthur, do you think I'm lying to my friends?"

"Lying?" Arthur repeated. "What do you mean?"

Francis shifted uncomfortably. "By not telling them what happened while I was in London. I feel like I'm hiding something from them, but... Am I? I don't have to say anything, right?" The look in his eyes was pleading once more.

"You're referring to what you told me the night after that party," Arthur said, more of a statement than a question. Francis gave a sharp nod, and he continued. "They're your friends, and they trust you, and I'm sure that they'd try to help if they knew. But if all of that's really in the past now, and as long as you aren't thinking like that anymore…?"

"I'm not."

"I don't see an issue."

He nodded, frowning slightly. "Someday." He stopped. "There was something I wanted to ask you."

"Yeah?"

"Did you mean what you said back at the hospital?"

Arthur chuckled. "I said a lot of things. You're going to have to elaborate."

"Are you really going to move in?"

Arthur stopped. After a moment, he found that he couldn't meet Francis's gaze, no matter how much he wanted to. He supposed they were going to have to get this out of the way sooner or later. He just didn't expect it today. "Ah. That."

He'd been thinking about it. Honestly, he had. But after giving more thought to it than he probably should have, he'd come to a conclusion that he knew that Francis wouldn't quite appreciate.

Francis sensed his apprehension. "That's a no, then, isn't it," he said, looking out towards the city lights with an unreadable expression on his face.

"I can't."

Francis gave him a short nod in reply, not looking back at him.

"Not now, at least," Arthur said. "There are things that I have to attend to at home. You know how that goes. But someday..." He paused until Francis finally looked back at him. "Someday, yes. If you'll have me, that is."

"Of course. You're always welcome here, Love," he said, a small smile playing across his lips.

Arthur put an arm around his waist then, being careful to stay away from where he knew there was a surgery scar. Francis mirrored his action, holding him closer than before. God, Arthur would miss this.

As if reading his mind, Francis spoke up again. "When are you leaving?"

"The day after tomorrow." Arthur let his gaze follow a car passing below. "I've already been here for a week more than I'd planned. As much as I'd love to stay longer, it's not really possible at this time."

"You'd love to stay longer," Francis echoed.

Arthur didn't know if that was a question or a statement, but he answered anyway. "I would," he assured him. "I don't really want to leave you right now. But now that you're in good hands…" He trailed off, hoping that he would understand.

Francis sighed, but nodded in assent. "There's always Easter, right?"

"Definitely." Arthur smiled. "I believe that we have plans with Cathédrale Sacré Cœur."

It was then that Arthur felt the first raindrop. He looked up at the darkened sky and felt a few more drops on his face. "Maybe we should go back inside," he said.

"Could we wait a little longer?" Francis asked. "There was something else I wanted to talk about."

"Of course," Arthur said, running a hand over his face to brush away the raindrops. He used to love just sitting in the rain when he was a child, but he hadn't done it in so long. It would be refreshing to do so again. "What is it?"

"Do you have the notebook with you?"

Arthur hadn't expected him to mention that again, but he nodded. Though it hardly seemed necessary now, it had become a habit to conceal the notebook in the inside pocket of his jacket whenever he left the apartment. He unzipped the inner pocket and pulled out the book.

Francis hesitated for a moment, his gaze fixed on the cover. Then, with deliberation, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object. There was a wistful smile on his face, as if he were recalling some fond memory. "Remember this?" he asked, passing it to Arthur.

Arthur took the small object from him, feeling the sensation of cold metal against his fingertips. He brought it closer to him in an attempt to identify it in the dim light. It was a cylinder, smooth and reflective despite numerous scratches upon its silver surface. A small lighter. "I remember," he said, feeling a smile come to his own face as well. "I wouldn't have had a good reason to approach you again without this."

Francis stood and stepped away from the edge of the roof, holding out a hand to take the book from him. "Maybe it will be useful to us once more," he said, giving him a pointed look.

He felt his smile fade almost as quickly as it had come. His gaze fell once more to the notebook in his hand, and then to the lighter. "Francis, what-"

"Could I have the book, please?"

Arthur stood, his breath catching in realization. "You're going to destroy it," he said quietly, meeting Francis's determined gaze.

Francis took hold of the edge of the notebook, and Arthur didn't resist as he felt it being pulled from his hand. "You understand, don't you?" Francis asked, his voice no louder than Arthur's had been. He reached for Arthur's other hand, taking the lighter from him as well. "You told me once that this book is what led to your family's success. But you and I have had a different experience with it – an awful experience." He turned and walked towards the center of the roof, and Arthur followed without a word. "This book has the ability to put so much good in the world. You understand that more than anyone. But that power's too great to be left alone, and I know that you realize that too."

The rain was coming down harder than before, but Arthur didn't pay it any attention as he watched as Francis knelt upon the damp concrete of the roof. Francis continued speaking before much time had passed. "Of course it's true that up until us, this book has brought nothing but well-being and good fortune. And yes, it's true that it may continue to do so." Francis looked up at him for the first time, and there was strong emotion in his eyes that Arthur couldn't place. "You're a very level-headed person, Arthur. It wasn't until you told me what this book really was that I realized just what being in possession of it was doing to you… Once I did, it was difficult to watch. But as long as it's still here, you'll be held back by it forever."

He took a deep breath, seeming like he didn't know exactly how to say what he was thinking. "Arthur, it's not fair to condemn you to a lifetime of knowing that events are going to happen but not knowing if you can do anything about it. You'd go mad before very long. I don't want _anyone_ to have to live with that. And if there's any chance that someone else will have to go through this as well, even after you, then I don't want to be the one to doom them." He stopped, looking down at the book before him. "If you really want to keep it, then I won't stop you," he said quietly. "But the way I see it..."

Arthur didn't know what to say. Was it really a good idea to destroy it? Francis was right when he said it still had value, but he was also right in how quickly they'd fall into the same patterns as before... "Francis, you would have been dead twice-over by now if we didn't have this," he said, not meeting his gaze. If there was a statement Francis couldn't contradict, then maybe he'd reconsider. If not, they'd get rid of this thing for good.

"But I'm just one person," Francis said. "I'm talking about everyone, here. You, every person who has this book after you, and everyone who it focuses on. No matter how many good things come from this, it won't be worth it if the bad outweighs the good even once." He stopped, looking down at the book in front of him. "We came out of all of this okay this time around. I don't know if whoever has this next will be so lucky."

Arthur knelt beside him and picked up the book. He hadn't realized that Francis was even capable of that level of selflessness. There were so many things about him that he still didn't know. Right now, that couldn't be helped.

He was right.

Arthur held the book just above the ground between them. "Go ahead."

Neither of them moved for a few moments. Then, slowly, Francis reached out and held the lighter beneath the book. He struck it a few times with his thumb until a steady flame rose from the steel cylinder.

Flames sprung up the binding of the notebook, the pages curling and blackening and smoke rising into the air in a dark cloud. Arthur tossed it to the ground when the heat became too much against his skin, and the fire swelled, engulfing the leather cover in flames.

The rain was coming down in steady streams, and Arthur put up his hood. "No more being your damn courier," Arthur said as the fire began to recede and raindrops fizzled on the cover of the notebook that would no longer bind them.

Francis was beside him again, laying an arm over his shoulders and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "I'm going to miss you," he murmured.

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Arthur couldn't find the right words. He hoped that the long kiss that followed would be enough to convey his thoughts. Because for the first time they had a clear view into the future, the kind that that book could have never offered – and they both felt the unsaid fact that they weren't going to let fate deny them this happiness any longer.


End file.
